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APPLETONS'  NEW  HANDY-VOLUME  SERIES. 


LITTLE    COMEDIES, 


BY 

JULIAN  STURGIS, 

AUTHOR  OF 
"  JOHX-A-DREAMS,"   AND   "  AN   ACCOMPLISHED  GENTLEMAN." 


NEW  YORK: 
D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY, 

1,  3,  AND  5  BOND  STKEET. 

1880. 


CONTENTS. 


PAOB 

APPLES .7 

FIRE-FLIES 55 

PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES                  .            .  .83 

HALF  WAY  TOARCADY.            .            .            .  127 

MABEL'S  HOLY   DAY  .            .                        .  .139 

HEATHER  165 


438826 


"  This  green  plot  shall  be  our  stage,  this  hawthorne  brake 
our  tyring  house." 

"  Like  cutler's  poetry 
Upon  a  knife,  Love  me,  and  leave  me  not" 


APPLES. 


CHARACTERS. 


CLAUD  HUKTLEY,  Artist. 
LADY  EOEDALE. 
BETTY  TYRKEL. 


APPLES. 


It  is  spring-time  in  Rome,  and  one  of  the  first 
hot  days.  In  the  veiled  light  of  his  studio 
CLAUD  HUKTLEY  is  painting  LADY  ROE- 
DALE'S  picture.  He  likes  to  talk  as  he 
works. 

CLAUD. 

Then  why  did  you  offer  to  sit  to  me  ? 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

Why  ?  Why  ?  It's  too  hot  to  give  reasons. 
Perhaps  because  your  studio  is  the  coolest  place 
in  Rome.  Or  shall  I  merely  say  that  I  sit  to  you 
because  I  choose  ? 

CLAUD. 

That's  better.  You  always  did  what  you 
chose.  And  now  you  are  free.  You  delight  in 
your  liberty. 


8  LITTLE   COMEDIES. 

LiADY  iiGEDALE. 

"  Delight"  is  a  strong  word.  It  is  suggestive 
of  violent  emotion.  I  detest  violence. 

CLAUD. 
You  say  with  Hamlet,  "  Man  delights  me  not." 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

I  say  nothing  with  Hamlet.  Heaven  defend 
me  from  such  presumption  !  and  besides,  Hamlet 
was  a  bore,  and  thought  too  much  of  himself. 

CLAUD. 

Heaven  defend  you  from  presumption !  But 
any  way  you  agree.  You  don't  like  man,  and 
you  do  like  liberty  ? 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

I  prefer  liberty  of  the  two.  A  widow  can  do 
what  she  pleases,  and — and  this  is  far  better,  she 
need  not  do  anything  which  bores  her. 

CLAUD, 

Ah,  there  you  are  wrong.  Your  liberty  is  a 
sham.  You  are  bound  by  a  thousand  silk  threads 
of  society.  Your  conduct  is  modified  by  the 
criticism  of  a  dozen  tea-tables.  Trippet  takes 
your  cup,  and  sees  that  your  eyes  are  red.  By 
the  way,  they  are  red — 


APPLES.  9 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

Thank  you.  If  I  am  looking  frightful,  we 
had  better  postpone  the  sitting. 

CLAUD. 

Your  eyes  are  red  :  off  runs  Trippet  with  the 
news.  Lady  Roedale  has  been  crying.  Why  ? 
Why !  of  course  because  the  Marchese  has  left 
Eome — says  Trippet. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

Does  he  ?  Trippet  is  odious,  and  so  is  the 
Marchese,  a  Narcissus  stuffed  and  dyed,  who  has 
been  in  love  with  himself  for  seventy  years. 
You  are  all  insufferable,  all  you  men. 

CLAUD. 
I  beg  your  pardon. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

Oh,  don't.  If  you  were  not  so  delightfully 
rude,  I  should  go  to  sleep.  I  used  to  have  a  snap- 
pish little  dog,  such  a  dear !  that  barked  when  I 
dozed.  He  was  very  good  for  me — but  he  died. 

CLAUD. 

And  when  I  die,  I  should  recommend  a  par- 
rot. 


10  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

A  parrot !  A  very  good  idea.  A  parrot  to 
say,  "  Wake  up,  my  lady."  Will  you  get  him  for 
me? 

CLAUD. 

I  shall  be  dead.  He  is  to  replace  me,  you 
know. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

No ;  I  shouldn't  like  that.  I  like  you  best, 
after  all. 

CLAUD. 

That  is  very  kind  of  you.  I  believe  you  do 
like  me  when  you  remember  my  existence. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

You  wouldn't  have  me  think  of  you  all  day. 
A  man  always  about  is  insufferable. 

CLAUD. 
Everything  is  insufferable  or  odious  to-day. 

LADY  ROEDALE. 
Do  you  think  so  ? 

CLAUD. 
I  mean  that  you  think  so. 


APPLES.  11 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

How  can  you  know  what  I  think  ?  I  am  sure 
I  don't  know  what  I  think.  It  is  so  hot.  I  ought 
not  to  have  sat  to-day,  but,  after  all,  as  I  said, 
your  studio  is  the  coolest  place  in  Kome. 

CLAUD. 
My  room  is  better  than  my  company. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

I  hate  jokes  in  hot  weather.  They  remind 
me  of  "laughter  holding  both  his  sides,"  and 
"tables  in  a  roar,"  and  all  sorts  of  violent  things. 

CLAUD. 

It's  no  good.  I  can't  get  on.  You  look  so 
lazy  and  indifferent.  I  hate  that  expression. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 
I  am  sorry  that  my  appearance  is  repulsive. 

CLAUD. 

I  wish  it  were.  But  no  matter.  We  were 
saying — what  were  we  saying  ?  Oh,  I  remember. 
You  were  saying  that  you  could  not  bear  to  have 
a  man  always  about  the  house. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 
I  have  been  married. 


12  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

CLAUD. 
How  can  you  bear  to  talk  of  that  ? 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

I  don't  know.  (She  yawns  and  stretches  out 
her  arms  lazily.)  I  am  free  now. 

CLAUD. 
Are  you  so  in  love  with  freedom  ? 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

In  love  !  I  don't  like  the  expression.  "  In 
love  "  is  a  vile  phrase. 

CLAUD. 

And  you  think  yourself  free.  Did  not  I  tell 
you  that  you  can't  move  hand  or  foot  without 
being  talked  about ;  that  you  can't  buy  a  bonnet 
without  being  married  to  some  fool ;  that  you 
can't  pass  a  club  window  without  setting  flippant 
tongues  wagging,  nor  stay  at  home  without  tea- 
drinking  dowagers  finding  the  reason  ?  Didn't  I 
tell  you — 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

Yes,  you  did. 

CLAUD. 

I  wish  I  had  the  right  to  stop  their  tongues. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 
You  are  a  very  old  friend. 


APPLES.  13 

CLAUD. 
That's  not  enough. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

How  hot  it  is  ! 

CLAUD. 

Very.  Will  you  be  so  kind  as  to  turn  your 
head  a  little  more  to  the  left  ? 

LADY  ROEDALE. 

Oh  dear,  how  cross  you  are  !  and  you  ought 
to  be  so  happy.  You  are  not  like  me.  You  have 
something  to  do.  You  can  stand  all  day  and 
smudge  on  color. 

CLAUD. 

A  nice  occupation — smudging  on  color. 

LADY  ROEDALE. 

One  can't  select  one's  words  in  hot  weather. 
I  wish  I  could  smudge. 

CLAUD. 
You  can  sit  for  pictures. 

LADY  ROEDALE. 

A  fine  occupation  !  To  be  perched  on  a  plat- 
form with  a  stiff  neck,  and  a  cross  painter,  a 
Heine  without  poetry.  I  believe  that  you  are 
only  painting  my  gown.  I  shall  stay  at  home  to- 
morrow, and  send  my  gown. 


14  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

CLAUD. 

Your  gown  will  be  less  cruel.  (He  puts  down 
his  painting  tools.)  Why  do  you  play  with  me 
like  this  ? 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

Play  ?  I  was  not  aware  I  was  doing  anything 
so  amusing. 

CLAUD. 

It  must  end  some  day. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 
Everything  ends — even  the  hot  weather. 

CLAUD. 
Clara  ! 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

Now,  please,  don't  quarrel.  We  have  always 
been  good  friends,  you  and  I. 

CLAUD. 
Friends  !    Yes. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 
Do  let  well  alone. 

CLAUD. 

Very  well.  As  you  please.  The  head  a  little 
more  up.  Thanks.  (He  takes  up  Ms  painting 
tools.)  You  don't  look  well. 


APPLES.  15 

LADY  EOEDALE. 
I  am  sorry  that  I  look  ugly. 

CLAUD. 

You  don't  look  ugly.  How  irritating  you 
are  ! 

LADY  KOEDALE. 
I  am  sorry  that  1  am  so  disagreeable. 

CLAUD. 

Oh !  I  shall  spoil  this  picture.  Perhaps  it 
will  be  more  like  the  original. 

LADY  ROEDALE. 

Spoiled  !  Oh,  Claud,  I  do  wish  you  wouldn't 
be  funny  till  the  weather  is  cooler.  It's  almost 
vulgar.  Besides,  I  am  not  spoiled,  not  in  the 
least.  I  am  generally  slighted.  No  woman  was 
ever  so  neglected.  I  am  not  fast  enough  to  be  a 
success.  But  to  be  fast  in  this  heat !  Oh,  dear 
me  !  it's  tiresome  enough  to  be  slow. 

CLAUD. 

I  am  glad  that  you  are  no  faster — not  that  it 
is  any  business  of  mine,  as  you  were  about  to  say. 
The  chin  a  little  more  up.  Thank  you. 


16  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

LADY  ROEDALE. 

How  kind  of  you  to  talk  for  me  !  It  saves  me 
so  much  trouble.  Go  on  ;  say  what  else  I  am 
about  to  say.  You  amuse  me. 

CLAUD. 

I  am  glad  to  do  what  I  can  for  you.  I  will 
talk  for  you,  walk  for  you,  fetch  and  carry  for 
you,  live  for  you,  die  for  you,  and  so— 

LADY  KOEDALE. 
Mocker !  Heine  ! 

CLAUD. 

"  Without  the  poetry  ! "  As  you  please.  Take 
it  as  mockery. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

All  romance  is  mockery.  Romance  is  as  much 
out  of  date  as  good  manners. 

CLAUD. 
Was  I  rude  again  ?    I  beg  your  pardon. 

LADY  ROEDALE. 

Only  fashionably  uncivil.  It's  quite  the  thing. 
The  best  men  talk  of  women  as  if  they  were 
horses. 


APPLES.  IT 

CLAUD. 

And  women  treat  men  as  if  they  were  don- 
keys. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

Oh,  dear  me,  how  quick  you  are  !  I  wish  I 
was  quick,  and  modern,  and  jolly.  I  wish  I  was 
a  jolly  good  fellow,  with  the  last  clown-gag  : 
"You'll  get  yourself  disliked,  my  boy"  ;  "  How 
ah  yah,  Sportsman  ? "  How  popular  I  should 
be  !  But  I  can't  do  it  naturally.  I  am  not  to 
the  manner  born.  I  am  bourgeoise.  Good  heav- 
ens !  perhaps  I  am  genteel. 

CLAUD. 

I  thought  I  was  to  do  your  talking  for  you. 
As  if  any  woman  could  be  silent  for  ten  minutes  ! 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

Do  you  think  I  wish  to  talk  ?  I  am  not  equal 
to  the  exertion.  Time  me,  then.  I  won't  speak 
a  word  for  ten — no,  for  five  minutes. 

CLAUD. 
Keep  your  head  up,  please.     Thank  you. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

"  How  are  you  to-morrow  ?  "  I  never  could 
see  the  humor  of  that. 

2 


18  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

CLAUD. 
Just  half  a  minute. 

LADY  BOEDALE. 

Don't  be  ridiculous.  Ah  me  !  I  shall  never 
be  a  success. 

CLAUD. 

A  success  !  What  do  you  want  ?  to  be  stared 
at  by  every  booby  at  the  opera — to  have  a  dozen 
fools  smiling  and  looking  conscious  when  your 
name  is  mentioned — to  hear  your  sayings  repeat- 
ed, and  lies  told  about  you,  and  your  gowns  de- 
scribed, and  your  movements  chronicled  ? 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

It  is  my  dream. 

CLAUD. 

All  women  are  alike — all  women,  except  one, 

perhaps. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

"  Except  one  ! "    Who  ?   who  ?    Oh,   Claud, 

do  tell  me  ! 

CLAUD. 

That's  better.  Now  you  look  awake.  Keep 
that  expression.  Ah  !  now  you've  lost  it  again. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

You  horrid  man,  tell  me  at  once  !  Who  is  it  ? 
Oh,  Claud,  do  tell  me,  please  ! 


APPLES.  19 

CLAUD. 
It's  nothing.     I  spoke  without  thinking. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

Then  you  meant  what  you  said.  I  don't  care 
for  things  which  men  say  after  thinking.  Then 
they  deceive  us,  poor  simple  women  that  we  are  ! 

CLAUD. 

Simple  !  There  was  never  a  simple  woman 
since  Eve.  The  best  women  manage  us  for  our 
good — the  worst  for  our  ill.  The  ends  are  dif- 
ferent, but  the  means  the  same. 

LADY  ROEDALE. 

Was  the  one  woman — the  exceptional  woman 
— the  paragon — was  she  not  simple  ? 

CLAUD. 

On  my  soul,  I  think  so.  She  was  not  bent  on 
success — success  in  society.  Yes,  she  was  simple. 

LADY  ROEDALE. 

So  is  bread  and  butter. 

CLAUD. 

And  she  was  clever,  too.  The  innocence  of  a 
child  and  the  wit  of  a  woman,  with  a  sweet,  whole- 
some humor — not  a  compound  of  sham  epigram 
and  rude  repartee. 


20  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

I  know,  I  know.  A  man's  woman  !  a  man's 
woman  !  With  a  pet  lamb  frisking  before  her, 
and  an  adoring  mastiff  at  her  heels ;  childlike 
gayety  in  her  step  and  frolic  fun  ;  a  gown  of  crisp 
white  muslin  ;  an  innocent  sash  ;  the  hair  plain, 
quite  plain  ;  and  the  nose  a  little  reddened  by 
cold  water.  Oh,  how  I  should  like  to  see  her  ! 

CLAUD. 

You  are  not  likely  to  be  gratified.  She  is 
buried,  as  you  would  say,  in  the  country. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 
Do  the  Tyrrels  never  leave  Limeshire  ? 

CLAUD. 

The  Tyrrels !  How  do  you  know  ?  Why 
should  you  think  I  was  talking  of  them  ?  Have 
they  a  daughter  ? 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

Have  they  a  daughter  !  When  men  try  diplo- 
macy, how  they  overdo  it !  Have  they  a  daugh- 
ter !  Claud,  Claud,  how  strange  that  you  should 
not  know  that  the  Tyrrels  have  a  daughter,  when 
you  spent  a  whole  summer  at  the  Tyrrels'  place, 
from  the  very  beginning  of  May  to  the  very  end 
of  September,  and  the  girl  was  at  home  during 
the  whole  of  your  visit ! 


APPLES.  21 

CLAUD. 
How  do  you  know  that  ? 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

Do  you  think  that  there  is  one  of  your  numer- 
ous lady  friends  who  does  not  know  the  history 
of  all  your  love  affairs  ? 

CLAUD. 

Perhaps  you  will  favor  me  with  this  history. 
It  will  probably  be  entirely  new  to  me. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

I  will  try.  But  it  is  hard  to  remember  in  this 
hot  weather.  Now,  attend.  The  scene  is  laid 
at  Lindenhurst,  an  ancient  house  in  Limeshire. 
There  dwell  the  living  representatives  of  the 
family  of  Tyrrel,  older  than  the  house ;  and 
thither  came  in  early  spring  a  painter  bent  on 
sketching — a  sort  of  Lord  of  Burleigh — aHeinrich 
Heine — a  man  not  too  young,  a — who  was  the 
man  who  had  seen  many  cities  and  things  ? 

CLAUD. 
Odysseus.     Ulysses. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

And  who  was  the  girl  who  played  ball  ?  The 
ingenue  ? 


22  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

CLAUD. 
That  Nausicaa  should  be  called  an  ingenue  ! 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

Ulysses,  who  had  been  in  many  societies  and 
seen  all  sorts  of  people,  was  rather  tired  of  it  all, 
and  growing  a  little  snappish  and  cross.  So  he 
sketched  because  he  had  nothing  better  to  do, 
and  he  looked  at  Nausicaa  for  the  same  reason  : 
and  so,  by  degrees,  he  found  himself  soothed  and 
refreshed  by  the  girl's  artlessness,  or  apparent  art- 


CLAUD. 
Apparent ! 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

She  was  such  a  contrast  to  the  weary  women 
of  the  world.  She  was  so  ingenuous,  oh,  so  in- 
genuous !  When  he  went  to  sketch,  she  went 
with  him,  as  a  matter  of  course  ;  and  she  showed 
him  her  favorite  bits  ;  and  he  made  a  thousand 
pretty  pictures  of  cows  and  pigs  and  dandelions, 
and,  above  all,  of  the  old  orchard,  full  of  apple- 
trees.  He  developed  a  passion  for  painting  apple- 
trees  in  every  stage,  from  blossom  to  fruit.  And 
the  country  seemed  very  countrified,  and  the 
green  refreshingly  green,  and  the  cows  nice  and 
milky,  and  the  pigs  unconventional,  and  the  dan- 
delions a  great  deal  finer  than  camellias,  and 
everything  lazy  and  industrious  and  delightful. 


APPLES.  23 

And  so  the  jaded  man  was  very  much  pleased  by 
the  novelty. 

CLAUD. 

A  very  pretty  story.  Pray  go  on.  Your  ex- 
pression is  almost  animated,  and  this  picture  is 
coming  a  little  better. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 
Then  came  the  reaction. 

CLAUD. 

That's  not  so  lively.  There  !  Now  you  have 
altered  your  face  entirely. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

The  novelty  ceased  to  be  a  novelty.  Old  Tyr- 
rel  grew  grumpy.  Mamma  had  always  thought 
the  child  might  do  better  if  she  had  a  season  in 
London.  And  then  my  lord  Ulysses  got  disgust- 
ed, and  the  curtain  fell — and  so  the  idyl  ended. 
There,  I  have  told  you  how  the  country  miss  set 
her  rustic  cap  at  the  man  of  the  world,  and  set  it 
in  vain. 

CLAUD. 

She  was  utterly  incapable  of  setting  her  cap 
at  anybody. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

Who  ?  Miss  Lottie— Tottie— Nelly—  Milly— 
What's  her  name  ? 


24  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

CLAUD. 
Betty.     Miss  Tyrrel. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

Then  I  have  succeeded  in  recalling  her  to  your 
mind  ?  The  Tyrrels  have  a  daughter. 

CLAUD. 
Go  on,  if  it  amuses  you. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

It  does  amuse  me  a  little.  Now  it  is  for  you 
to  take  up  the  story.  Why  did  you  go  away,  and 
leave  this  Arcadia  and  Miss  Nausicaa  ? 

CLAUD. 

Because  I  was  afraid  of  loving  her.  That  is 
the  truth,  since  you  will  know  it.  And  now  let 
us  drop  it.  It  is  as  much  a  thing  of  the  past  as 
the  Pyramids.  I  want  to  talk  of  the  present — of 
you,  Clara,  if  I  may 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

Things  of  the  past  are  so  seldom  past.  The 
Pyramids  are  about  still.  I  must  know  why  you 
were  afraid  of  loving  this  girl. 

CLAUD. 
What  is  the  use  of  talking  about  that  ? 


APPLES.  25 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

It's  as  bad  as  suppressing  the  third  volume  of 
one's  novel.  If  you  don't  tell  me,  I  shall  go  away. 

CLAUD. 

Why  should  I  mind  telling  you  ?  It's  a  tale 
of  the  dark  ages  long  ago.  Keep  your  head  a  lit- 
tle more  to  the  left. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 
But  I  want  to  look  at  you. 

CLAUD. 

Deny  yourself  that  pleasure,  if  you  can. 
Thanks. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

Well  ?    Go  on,  do. 

CLAUD. 

A  nice  fellow  I  was  to  win  the  love  of  a  young 
girl. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

Why  ?    You  are  not  worse  than  most  men. 

CLAUD. 

Will  you  kindly  keep  your  head  turned  to  the 
left  ?  Thanks.  There  was  a  girl  with  all  the 
world  about  her  sweet  and  bright  and  young,  and 


26  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

a  woman's  life  before  her  with  promise  of  all  good. 
There  was  I,  a  man  who  had  outlived  my  illusions 
— who  had  found  the  world  dusty,  chokingly 
dusty.  The  apples  were  dust  in  my  mouth.  I 
had  tried  most  things,  and  failed  in  most  things. 
My  art  was  of  less  importance  than  my  dinner. 
I  could  still  dine,  though  I  didn't  eat  fruit  in  the 
evening.  Bah  !  The  apples  turned  to  dust  be- 
tween my  teeth.  Why  should  I  link  a  young 
creature,  fresh  as  a  June  rose,  to  a  dry  stick  ? 

LADY  EOEDALE. 
They  train  roses  so  sometimes. 

CLAUD. 

Misleading  metaphor  !  I  came  away.  It's 
all  over,  all  well  over,  long  ago.  Why  you  insist 
on  raking  up  this  foolish  matter,  I  can't  imagine. 
Yes,  I  can.  It  is  to  turn  the  conversation.  You 
know  quite  well  what  I  wish  to  say  to  you,  what 
I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  say  to  you.  We  have 
known  each  other  for  a  long  time,  Clara  :  we  have 
always  been  friends  :  we  have  both  outlived  some 
illusions  :  I  think  we  should  get  on  well  together. 
Clara,  consult  your  own  happiness  and  mine. 
What  do  you  think  ? 

LADY  EOEDALE. 
May  I  look  round  now  ? 


APPLES.  27 

CLAUD. 
Do  be  serious.     Don't  be  provoking. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

And  you  think  that  two  dry  sticks  supporting 
each  other  is  a  more  engaging  spectacle  than  a 
rose  trained  on  a  prop  ? 

CLAUD. 
Enough  of  tropes.     I  deserve  a  plain  answer. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

Don't  people  strike  sparks  by  rubbing  two 
sticks  together  ? 

CLAUD. 

What  are  you  talking  about  ? 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

How  the  sparks  would  fly  !  I  suppose  that  I 
ought  to  be  very  grateful,  Claud.  I  am  not  quite 
sure.  It's  not  a  magnificent  offer.  A  banquet  of 
lost  illusions  and  Dead  Sea  fruit.  What  a  pleas- 
ant household  !  "  This  is  my  husband,  a  gentle- 
man who  has  outlived  his  illusions/' — "Permit 
me  to  present  you  to  my  wife,  a  lady  who  has 
everything  but  a  heart."  Will  you  have  an  ap- 
ple ?  We  import  them  ourselves  fresh  from  the 
Dead  Sea.  Fresh ! 


28  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

CLAUD. 

I  wonder  you  don't  find  the  weather  too  hofc 
for  comedy. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

Do  you  call  that  comedy  ?  It  seems  to  me 
dreary  enough. 

CLAUD. 
The  thought  of  joining  your  lot  to  mine  ? 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

My  lot !  I  never  was  dignified  by  such  a  pos- 
session. I  go  on  by  chance,  and  so  do  you.  We 
have  run  along  very  pleasantly  side  by  side. 
Hadn't  we  better  leave  it  like  that  ?  If  we  were 
linked  together,  like  two  shaky  vans  in  a  goods 
train,  which  of  us  would  go  in  front  ? 

CLAUD. 

You've  the  most  provoking  passion  for  met- 
aphor. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

And  you  are  sure  that  you  have  quite  got  over 
your  admiration  for  Miss  Tyrrel  ? 

CLAUD. 

Don't  talk  of  that.  I  tell  you  it  is  as  much 
over  as  youth.  I  shall  never  see  her  again. 


APPLES.  29 

LADY  ROEDALE. 
You  think  not  ? 

CIAUD. 

I  am  sure.     The  Tyrrels  never  leave  Linden- 
hurst. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

What  should  you  say  if  I  told  you  that  they 
were  in  Rome — let  us  say  at  the  hotel  opposite  ? 

CLAUD. 

I  should  say  that  you  were  romancing.     If  I 
believed  you,  I  should  leave  Rome  to-day. 

LADY  ROEDALE. 

Then  don't  believe  me.     Couldn't  you  get  me 
some  ice  ? 

CLAUD. 
I  am  afraid  that  my  man  is  out. 

LADY  ROEDALE. 

You  said  that  you  would  fetch  and  carry  for 
me. 

CLAUD. 

Oh,  you  want  to  be  rid  of  me !    Very  well, 
I'll  go.     I  don't  mind  appearances. 


30  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 
Why  should  you  ?    Don't  be  long. 

CLAUD. 
You  mean  it  ?    Oh,  very  well,  I'll  go. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 
Au  revoir  ! 

(Hereupon  CLAUD  goes  out,  and  leaves  LADY  KOE- 
DALE alone.) 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

She  is  in  Kome,  nevertheless,  Mr.  Claud,  this 
Miss  Betty  of  the  apple  orchard.  Shall  I  tell 
him,  or  shall  I  not  ?  I  am  so  sleepy  that  I  can't 
decide  on  anything.  Do  I  want  to  marry  Claud 
Huntley  ?  Ugh  !  I  don't  know.  I  am  too 
sleepy  to  think.  How  tiresome  men  are  !  Why 
won't  they  stay  good  friends,  instead  of  turning 
into  bad  lovers  ?  The  age  of  lovers  is  past.  Love 
is  impossible  in  so  enlightened  a  generation.  I 
am  bored,  and  he  is  bored.  We  shall  be  twice  as 
bored  together.  That's  mathematics,  or  logic,  or 
something.  Now  I  dare  say  that  Claud  thinks  I 
have  sent  him  away  that  I  may  consider  his  pro- 
posal. As  if  it  wasn't  much  too  hot  to  consider 
anything  !  It  would  be  easier  to  take  him  than 
to  think  about  it.  Dear  old  Claud  !  I  am  sure 


APPLES.  31 

he  pictures  me  at  this  moment  striding  up  and 
down,  twisting  my  handkerchief  like  the  woman 
in  the  play,  and  muttering,  "  Oh  Claud,  Claud, 
why  distract  me  thus  ?  Oh  cruel  man,  will  you 
not  leave  me  at  peace  ?  "  Shall  I  say  Yes  or  ISTo  ? 
What  would  he  say  if  he  met  Miss  Betty  ?  What 
would  she  say?  I  am  very  sleepy — very,  very 
sleepy.  He  pictures  me  in  an  awful  state  of  ex- 
citement and  agitation.  What  must  be,  must. 
Apples  turn  to  dust — cottage  and  crust.  I'll  let 
things  drift.  It  doesn't  matter  much,  not  much. 
Oh  Claud  !  oh  cruel  man  !  oh  sleep  !  I'll  take  a 
nap  just  to  spite  him. 

(80  she  falls  asleep,  screened  from  the  eyes  of 
Miss  BETTY  TYRREL,  who  presently  comes 
in,  stepping  lightly  and  quickly.) 

BETTY. 

I  saw  him  go  out.  He's  sure  not  to  come 
back  yet.  I  am  so  frightened,  and  it  is  such  fun! 
What's  the  good  of  being  in  Rome,  if  you  don't  do 
as  the  Eomans  do  ?  He  must  have  gone  for  his 
daily  walk.  He  can't  be  back  yet.  And  if  he 
does  come,  why  should  I  care  ?  I  sha'n't  be  fright- 
ened. He  always  said  I  was  very  cool.  If  he 
comes  in,  I  shall  drop  him  a  courtesy,  and  say, 
"  How  do  you  do,  Mr  Huntley  ?  I  said  I  would 
look  in  on  you  some  day,  and  here  I  am."  And 
he  will  make  me  a  bow,  and — but  probably  he 


32  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

won't  know  me.  He'll  take  me  for  a  tourist  lady 
visiting  his  studio,  and  wanting  to  buy  pictures  ; 
and  I  shall  say,  "Yes,  thank  you,  very  nice ;  put 
up  that,  and  that ;  and  would  you  be  so  kind  as 
to  send  them  down  to  my  carriage  ? — yes,  and  the 
little  one  in  the  corner  too,  please."  Why,  what 
is  it  ?  Yes,  it  is,  it  is  the  old  orchard,  our  orchard, 
our  orchard  in  May,  with  all  the  bright  new  blos- 
soms, as  it  was  when  he —  He  used  to  say  that  it 
was  like  the  foam  of  the  sea  at  sunrise.  I  don't 
think  he  ever  saw  the  sun  rise.  He  was  awfully 
lazy.  How  good  of  him  to  keep  this  near  him — 
the  orchard,  and  a  little  corner  of  the  dear  old 
house  !  Oh  blossoms,  blossoms,  you  are  there  now 
at  home,  and  I  wish  I  was  there  too,  and  had 
never  come  out  and  grown  wise  and  old  in  this 
horrid  world  !  It  was  there  that  I  saw  him  first, 
just  there.  He  was  following  papa  through  the 
little  gate  with  the  broken  hinge,  and  he  bent  his 
head  under  the  blossoms.  He  looked  so  tall  and 
so  tired.  And  yet  he  hadn't  been  doing  anything. 
Men  are  very  strange.  The  less  they  do,  the  more 
tired  they  are.  Why,  here's  another  picture  of 
the  orchard.  How  funny  !  It  must  be  autumn, 
for  the  apples  are  all  ripe.  But  who  is  the  young 
man  in  the  funny  cap  ?  And  who  are  the  three 
ladies  ?  And  why  does  he  sit,  when  they  are 
standing  ?  I  can't  make  it  out.  Do  they  want 
the  apple  ?  If  you  please,  sir,  give  it  to  the  lady 
with  the  shield  and  spear.  That  other  one  is  not 


APPLES.  33 

nice,  not  nice,  I  am  sure.  I  don't  care  much  for 
that  picture.  Are  there  any  more  apple  pictures  ? 
No  ;  no.  Yes,  here's  another.  Adam  and  Eve,  I 
think.  Yes,  here  is  one  great  glittering  coil  of  the 
serpent.  I  don't  like  Eve.  What  a  languid,  fine- 
lady  Eve  !  Who's  face  is  this  ?  How  handsome. 
And  this  ?  And  this  one  on  the  easel  ?  Every- 
where the  same  face,  handsome,  lazy,  indiifereiit. 
No,  no,  no,  he  never  would  be  happy  with  her. 
It's  Eve's  face.  Wicked  woman  !  Wicked  wo- 
man ! 

LADY  ROEDALE,  waking. 

Did   you  call  me  ?     Ah,  what  a  sweet  air ! 
The  day  is  changed. 

BETTY. 
Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon. 

LADY  ROEDALE,  drowsily. 
Are  you  real,  or  a  dream  ? 

BETTY. 

I  am  real.     No  ;   I  had  better  say  that  I  am 
a  dream  and  melt  away. 

LADY  ROEDALE. 

I  was  just  dreaming  of  you,  Miss  Tyrrel. 
3 


34  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

BETTY. 

Of  me  ?  You  don't  know  me.  How  do  you 
know —  I  mean,  you  called  me  by  some  name, 
I  think. 

LADY  ROEDALE. 

Yes,  Miss  Innocence,  I  called  you  "  Miss  Tyr- 
rel." 

BETTY. 
How  can  you  know  ? 

LADY  ROEDALE. 

I  am  a  witch,  for  one  thing ;  and  for  another, 
I  saw  your  picture. 

BETTY. 
Has  he  got  a  picture  of  me  ? 

LADY  ROEDALE. 
Of  course,  my  dear. 

BETTY. 
And  did  he  show  it  to  you  ? 

LADY  ROEDALE. 

No  ;  I  was  looking  about  for  curiosity's  sake, 
and  I  saw  it. 


APPLES.  35 

BETTY. 

You  are  often  here,  then?  Oh,  I  beg  your 
pardon.  I  have  no  right  to  question  you.  But  I 
don't  know  who  you  are. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

I  am  LADY  KOEDALE  ;  I  am  a  widow ;  I  am 
sitting  for  my  picture  ;  I  am  an  old  friend  of 
Mr.  Huntley's  Will  that  do  ? 

BETTY. 
A  friend. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

A  friend,  my  sweet  Simplicity.  And  you? 
What  brings  you  here  ? 

BETTY. 
Me  ?    I — I  am  an  old  friend,  too. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 
An  old  friend  !    Not  quite  old  enough,  I  think. 

BETTY. 

Oh,  Lady  Koedale,  I  didn't  think.  I  ought 
not  to  have  come. 


36  LITTLE   COMEDIES. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

It's  very  pretty  and  unconventional,  my  dear. 
Somebody  said  that  you  were  so  simple  that  you 
didn't  know  what  was  conventional  and  what 
wasn't. 

BETTY. 

Oh,  Lady  Roedale,  you  know — you  know  that 
women  are  not  like  that. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

Yes,  I  know. 

BETTY. 

But  I  didn't  think  ;  I  didn't  stop  to  think,  or 
I  shouldn't  have  come.  We  are  living  just  oppo- 
site, and  I  saw  him  go  out,  and  all  of  a  sudden  I 
thought  what  fun  it  would  be  to  see  his  studio 
when  he  was  away,  and  that  I  could  run  back, 
and  he  would  never  know.  But  if  I  had  only 
known  that  you  were  here,  I  would  have  died 
sooner  than  come. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 
It  is  better  to  live. 

BETTY. 

But  you  won't  tell  him  ?  Promise  me  that 
you  won't  tell  him.  If  you  will  only  promise  me, 
I  will  never  come  back,  I  will  never  see  him  again 
— never,  never. 


APPLES.  37 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

Don't  be  rash,  my  dear.  You  are  safe  now. 
You  have  run  into  the  arms  of  a  chaperon,  a 
duenna,  a  Gorgon.  But,  if  Mr.  Huntley  is  an  old 
friend  of  yours,  why  didn't  your  father  and  mother 
come  to  see  him,  too  ? 

BETTY. 

Because  they  are  hurt.  He  went  away  so  sud- 
denly from  home,  and  he  never  wrote,  and  they 
liked. him  so  much,  and  they  thought  it  unkind  ; 
but  I  know  he  never  meant  to  be  unkind,  for  he 
was  always  kind,  and  I  know  that  he  wouldn't  be 
angry  even  at  my  coming  here,  and — and  that's 

why. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

That's  why,  is  it  ? 

BETTY. 
You  don't  think  that  I  am  very  bad  ? 

LADY  ROEDALE. 

My  dear,  you  are  much  too  good.  I  have  no 
taste  for  bread  and  milk  and  book  muslin  ;  I  don't 
like  men's  women  ;  but  I  do  like  you. 

BETTY. 

Thank  you,  thank  you.  Now  I  see  that  he 
has  not  nattered  you,  not  a  bit.  I  thought  at 
first  that  he  had.  He  had  his  heart  in  his  work 
when  he  did  this. 


38  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

Shall  I  show  you  the  work  in  which  his  heart 
is? 

BETTY. 

Yes. 

(LADY  EOEDALE  draws  aside  a  curtain  and  shows 
a  picture.) 

BETTY. 
My  picture ! 

LADY  EOEDALE. 
Yours. 

BETTY. 

Oh,  let  me  go  !    If  he  should  come  and  find 
me  here  !    Oh,  let  me  go,  let  me  go  ! 

LADY  EOEDALE. 
Too  late.     I  hear  him  on  the  stairs. 

BETTY. 
What  shall  I  do  ? 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

Do  as  you  are  bid.     Give  me  your  picture, 
quick  !    Now  go  behind  the  curtain,  and  be  still. 

(She  draws  the  curtain  carefully.     CLAUD  enters, 
bringing  ice.) 


APPLES.  39 

CLAUD. 

I  bring  you  ice,  and  something  better.  The 
heat  is  passing ;  the  day  is  changed.  Ah  !  the  air 
smells  wooingly  here.  See  how  I  fetch  and  carry  ! 
Doesn't  this  convince  you  that  I — 

LADY  EOEDALE  (studying  the  picture). 
Yes,  it  is  pretty. 

CLAUD. 
Where  did  you  get  that  ? 

LADY  ROEDALE. 
Don't  be  angry  ;  I  won't  hurt  it. 

CLAUD. 
As  you  please.     It's  of  no  value — now. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

It  is  much  better  than  mine.  Indeed,  it  has 
only  one  fault. 

CLAUD. 
Indeed  ? 

LADY  ROEDALE. 

It  is  awfully  flattered. 

CLAUD. 

How  can  you  know,  when  you  never  saw  the 
original  ? 


40  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 
Ah,  that  is  very  true. 

CLAUD. 

Put  it  down,  please.  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
about — to  go  back  to  what  we  were  saying,  when — 

LADY  EOEDALE. 
Shall  I  throw  it  down  here  ? 

CLAUD. 
Take  care  !     What  are  you  doing  ? 

LADY  EOEDALE. 
I  thought  you  said  it  was  of  no  value  ? 

CLAUD. 

It  isn't.  But,  then,  we  are  vain,  you  know, 
we  artists ;  we  don't  like  to  see  our  work,  even 
our  bad  work,  destroyed. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 
Then  I  won't  destroy  it.     I'll  improve  it. 

CLAUD. 

What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  I  don't  quite 
understand.  Let  me  put  it  away. 


APPLES.  41 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

No,  don't  touch  it.  I  often  think  of  taking 
up  painting  again.  This  is  evidently  unfinished. 
Why  is  it  unfinished  ? 

CLAUD. 
I  was  afraid  of  spoiling  it. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

Ah,  that  was  when  it  was  of  some  value  ;  but 
now — 

CLAUD. 

Now  it  doesn't  matter.     Let  me  put  it  away. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 
I  shall  finish  it  myself. 

CLAUD. 
You! 

LADY  ROEDALE. 

Any  valueless  old  thing  will  do  to  practice  my 
hand  on ;  I  am  just  in  the  mood.  You  have 
painted  enough  this  morning.  It's  my  turn. 

CLAUD. 
But  Clara — 


42  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

Come,  take  my  picture  off  the  easel.  There  ! 
There  she  is  in  my  place.  A  change  for  the  bet- 
ter, I  think.  Stand  out  of  the  light.  I  shall 
make  her  lovely. 

(As  she  begins  to  arrange  the  colors  on  the  palette 
he  gets  more  and  more  anxious.) 

CLAUD. 

Here,  try  this.  This  sketch  is  much  better 
to  work  on. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

Don't  bother.  I  am  bent  on  improving  this 
young  woman. 

CLAUD. 

That's  a  very  odd  color  you  are  getting. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 
What  can  it  matter  to  you  ? 

CLAUD. 
Clara,  what  are  you  at  ?    Stop  ! 

(He  snatches  the  picture  from  the  easel.) 

LADY  ROEDALE. 
And  the  picture  is  of  no  value  ? 


APPLES.  43 

CLAUD. 
I  beg  your  pardon,  Clara. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 
Valueless,  but  too  valuable  for  me. 

CLAUD. 
Clara,  you  won't  understand. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

Oh,  yes,  I  will.  A  mere  sketch,  and  absurdly 
flattered. 

CLAUD. 

Flattered  !  (He  holds  the  picture  in  Ms  hands, 
perusing  it.)  How  can  you  know  ? 

LADY  ROEDALE. 
It  is  much  prettier  than  Miss  Tyrrel. 

CLAUD. 

What  do  you  mean  ?  Well,  yes,  I  believe,  if 
I  remember  right,  that  it  was  taken  from  Miss 
Tyrrel. 

LADY  ROEDALE. 

And  I  believe,  if  I  remember  right,  that  it  is 
twice  as  pretty  as  Miss  Tyrrel. 


44  LITTLE   COMEDIES. 

CLAUD. 
You  have  never  seen  her. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 
Indeed,  I  have. 

CLAUD. 
Indeed  !    Where  ? 

LADY  EOEDALE. 
Here. 

CLAUD. 
In  Eome  ? 

LADY  EOEDALE. 
Here. 

CLAUD. 
Here  !    What  do  you  mean  ? 

LADY  EOEDALE. 
Here,  in  this  room. 

CLAUD. 

Clara,  I  dare  say  that  this  is  extremely  amus- 
ing to  you.  I  don't  see  the  joke  myself.  I  don't 
see  why  you  should  rake  up  this  old  story.  Yes, 
I  do  see.  You  wish  to  quarrel,  to  find  an  excuse 
for  not  answering  me,  when  I  ask  you — 


APPLES.  45 

LADY  ROEDALE. 
She  was  here. 

CLAUD. 
The  Tyrrels  never  leave  Lindenhurst. 

LADY  ROEDALE. 
The  Tyrrels  are  in  Rome. 

CLAUD. 
Is  this  true  ?    Don't  push  this  joke  too  far. 

LADY  ROEDALE. 
It  is  true. 

CLAUD. 
Then  I  must  go. 

LADY  ROEDALE. 
Why? 

CLAUD. 
Is  it  true  that  the  Tyrrels  are  here  in  Rome  ? 

LADY  ROEDALE. 
It  is  true. 

CLAUD. 

I  must  go,  then.    Oh,  don't  imagine  anything 
extraordinary.     It  is  a  simple  matter.     These 


46  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

people  were  kind  to  me,  kind  with  a  generous 
hospitality  which  is  rare.  I  staid  and  staid  in 
their  house,  until  I  thought  that  I  should  never 
go,  until  I  feared  that —  Well,  it  came  to  this  : 
Here  were  people  who,  in  honesty  and  good  faith, 
had  treated  me  like  a  king  ;  people  who — 

LADY  ROEDALE. 

Don't  dilate  upon  the  Tyrrel  character  just 
now. 

CLAUD. 

What  was  I  doing  in  return  for  all  their  good- 
ness ?  I  found  myself  trying  to  win  the  love  of 
their  only  child,  a  girl  with  no  knowledge  of  the 
world,  who  had  seen  no  men  to  speak  of,  and 
who  might  take  me,  even  me,  for  a  very  fine 
fellow. 

LADY  EOEDALE. 
You  were  on  the  way  to  get  what  you  wanted. 

CLAUD. 

I  was  not  a  scoundrel.  I  knew  myself :  a 
man  who  had  knocked  about  the  world,  a  paint- 
ing vagabond,  and  social  cynic,  not  worthy  to 
touch  her  hand  or  look  into  her  eyes.  High- 
flown,  you  think ;  but  I  was  not  a  scoundrel,  and 
I  went  away. 


APPLES.  47 

LADY  KOEDALE. 
But  now  ? 

CLAUD. 

Now  ?  Welly  now,  I  don't  want  to  have  to 
do  the  thing  again. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

Then  it  would  be  hard  to  see  her  again  and 
go? 

CLAUD. 

Yes. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 
You  loved  her  ? 

CLAUD. 
I  suppose  so  ? 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

I  always  thought  that  you  were  not  a  bad  fel- 
low. 

CLAUD. 

I  am  not  over-good.  I  don't  wish  to  open  an 
old  wound.  That's  not  extraordinary  virtue,  is 
it? 

LADY  ROEDALE. 

And  the  girl  ?    What  of  her  ? 


48  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

CLAUD. 

By  this  time  she  has  seen  scores  of  men,  in  all 
respects  better  than  me,  confound  them  !  She  ? 
Why  she — 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

Stop.  Don't  say  too  much  about  Miss  Betty 
Tyrrel.  Put  her  picture  back,  and  drop  the  sub- 
ject. Put  the  picture  back  in  its  place. 

CLAUD. 
Very  well.     I  don't  want  to  bore  you. 

(So  he  goes  to  replace  the  picture,  and 
draws  aside  the  curtain.  There  is 
BETTY  TYRREL.  Then  there  is  si- 
lence in  the  room  for  a  time.) 

BETTY. 

Mr.  Huntley,  I  am  very  sorry.  I  did  not 
mean  to  listen. 

CLAUD. 

Betty — Miss  Tyrrel — is  it  you  ? 

BETTY. 
Oh,  forgive  me  !     I  did  not  mean  to  listen. 

CLAUD. 
And  it  is  you,  indeed  ? 


APPLES.  49 

BETTY. 

But  I  did  not  mean  it.  Oh,  you  believe  that 
I  did  not  hide  myself  here  to  listen  ! 

CLAUD. 
You! 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

It  was  my  fault. 

CLAUD. 
What  do  you  mean  ? 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

Do  attend  to  me.  Miss  Tyrrel  is  my  friend. 
She  came  to  fetch  me  after  my  sitting.  Finding 
that  the  studio  belonged  to  you,  of  all  men  in  the 
world,  she  was  frightened  ;  and  I  put  her  there. 

BETTY. 

Thank  you — oh,  thank  you  !  Mr.  Huntley,  it 
it  so  good  of  her  to  say  that.  But  I  must  tell 
you.  We  are  living  just  opposite,  papa  and 
mamma  and  I ;  and  I  saw  you  go  out ;  and  I 
thought  you  were  going  away ;  and  I  never 
stopped  to  think ;  and  I  slipped  out  by  myself ; 
and  I  did  so  want  to  see  the  place  where  you 
worked.  I  did  not  stop  to  think  ;  that  was  where 
I  was  wrong.  And  I  found  her  here,  and  I  was 
frightened. 
4 


50  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

LADY  KOEDALE. 

Yes,  as  I  told  you,  she  was  frightened,  and  I 
put  her  in  the  corner.  Good  heavens,  Claud  ! 
ain't  you  going  to  say  something  ?  Why  do  you 
stand  there  like  a  tragedian  or  a  Maypole  !  Oh, 
you  men  ! 

BETTY. 
Won't  you  forgive  me  ? 

CLAUD. 

Forgive  you  !  Why  ?  Can  you  do  any  wrong  ? 
You  have  heard  me  say  what  I  never  dared  to  say 
in  the  old  days.  I  am  glad  that  you  have  heard 
me.  You  will  think  more  kindly  of  me,  some 
day,  when —  May  I  see  you  safe  across  the  street  ? 
Will  you  say  all  kind  things  for  me  to  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Tyrrel  ? 

LADY  ROEDALE. 
Is  the  man  a  fool  ? 

BETTY. 

You  are  not  angry  with  me,  then  ? 

CLAUD. 

Are  you  not  angry  with  me  for  having  dared 
to  love  you  ? 


APPLES.  51 

BETTY. 

I  never  was  angry  with  you,  not  even  when  you 
went  away  so  suddenly. 

CLAUD. 

Were  you  sorry  ?  Oh,  take  care,  take  care, 
child.  Don't  deceive  me  or  yourself.  Were  you 
sorry  when  I  went  away  ? 

BETTY. 
We  were  all  sorry,  very  sorry. 

CLAUD. 

But  you,  you  ?  You  came  here  :  would  you 
stay  here — with  me  ?  Oh,  child,  is  it  possible  that 
you  should  care  for  me  ? 

BETTY. 

Yes. 

CLAUD. 

If  I  had  known  this  ! 

LADY  EOEDALE. 

Any  one  but  a  man  would  have  known  it  years 
ago.  (As  she  looks  at  CLAUD  and  BETTY,  she  be- 
gins to  smile  at  her  own  thoughts.')  There  were 
only  two  in  Paradise,  in  the  first  apple  orchard, 
unless  you  count  the  serpent ;  and  that  is  a  role 
for  which  I  have  neither  inclination  nor  capacity. 

(LADY  ROEDALE  goes  toward  the  door ;  and  so 
ends  the  Comedy.) 


FIRE-FLIES. 


CHARACTERS. 


BICE. 
BINO. 


FIKE-FLIES. 


(The  long  row  of  windows  is  yellow  with  the  fes- 
tive light  within,  and  yields  gay  music  soft- 
ened to  the  summer  night :  before  the  ivin- 
dows  the  broad  terrace  is  mysterious  under 
the  rising  moon,  and  far  below  dreams  the 
old  river,  and  the  shadows  fade  from  her. 
Ancient  and  grim  is  the  city,  with  her  pal- 
aces and  prisons.  Here  on  the  terrace  is  a 
young  woman,  masked  and  musing:  there 
is  a  young  man,  musing  and  masked.  She 
speaks.) 

BICE. 

I  am  so  sorry  that  I  can't  feel  sad,  I  parted 
from  Bino  this  morning.  I  love  Bino.  Certain- 
ly I  love  him.  We  are  parted.  Parted  !  Why 
do  I  not  feel  sad  ?  It  is  very  distressing.  The 
night  is  so  beautiful  and  the  dance  so  gay.  For 
no  woman  in  the  world  but  the  Yera  would  I 
dance  after  a  parting  from  Bino.  The  Vera  sent 


56  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

for  me  in  her  old  imperious  way,  and  here  I  am. 
Here  I  am  in  this  cruel,  cruel  city,  left  alone,  in 
gay  attire,  and  hiding  beneath  the  mask  a  sad, 
sad  face.  Only  it  is  not  sad.  Ah  me  !  There  is 
too  much  joy  in  the  air  ;  the  night  is  too  beauti- 
ful ;  the  music  is  too  sweet :  it  comes  to  me  like 
fairy  music.  The  river  lingers  in  the  moonlight, 
and  I  linger.  0  Bino  mio,  0  my  love — what  a 
very  pleasant  evening  it  is  ! 

Biisro. 

It  is  strange  that  I  should  be  here,  I  who 
should  be  flying  far  away.  After  that  parting 
from  Bice,  that  sweet  parting,  how  have  I  the 
heart  to  linger  in  this  gay  scene  ?  It  is  gay. 
Where  is  that  little  wretch,  our  adorable  hostess, 
the  Vera  ?  For  no  woman  else  would  I  linger  so 
near  the  house,  wherein  I  parted  this  morning 
from  the  sweetest  creature  of  the  world.  Ah 
me  !  it  is  a  night  of  stars  ;  the  ancient  river  grows 
young  in  the  moonlight ;  the  air  beats  with  the 
passion  of  a  thousand  mandolines.  0  beautiful 
night,  I  bless  thee  for  the  sake  of  my  Bice.  Per- 
chance she  leans  from  her  window  to  the  fragrant 
air  of  her  garden,  and  whispers  my  name.  Now 
she  lays  herself  upon  her  little  bed,  and  veils  those 
violet  eyes.  Sleep  little  one,  sleep  while  I  watch. 
A  sad  and  lonely  vigil.  Ah  !  the  music  !  0  Bice 
mia,  to  each  cup  which  I  shall  quaff  to-night,  I 
will  whisper  one  name,  thy  name.  I  will  go  quaff 


FIRE-FLIES.  57 

one  now. — But  who  is  this  ?  A  lady,  masked. 
If  it  should  be  the  Vera.  I  dare  swear  'tis  she. 
I  know  her  by  a  certain  imperious  trick  of  the 
elbow.  I  am  never  wrong  in  such  matters.  Will 
she  know  me  ?  I  think  not.  Now  to  go  mas- 
querading.— Fair  lady ! 

BICE. 
Gentle  cavalier ! 

BlKO. 

What  read  you  in  the  stars  ? 

BICE. 
That  day  is  done,  sir. 

BINO. 
But  the  light  of  love  eternal. 

BICE. 

It  may  be  that  the  stars  are  eternal ;  it  is  cer- 
tain that  they  are  many. 

BlKO. 

And  so  unlike  to  love,  who  is  but  one. 

BICE. 
Where  did  you  learn  to  speak  so  cunningly  ? 


58  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

Bi^o. 
Here.     I  was  dumb  till  I  saw  you. 

BICE. 

By  my  lady's  parrot,  'twere  a  better  compli- 
ment to  have  been  stricken  dumb  by  the  sight. 

BlNO. 

Alas  !  I  have  no  gift  of  compliment. 
I  can  not  flatter,  no  not  I, 

Oh  no,  not  I ; 
I  am  all  truth,  sweet  harmony, 

And  love  by  and  by. 

BICE. 

Save  us  from  song !  And  yet,  beyond  ques- 
tion, you  and  I  were  born  in  one  rhyming  hour. 
For  mark  me  now. 

I  can  not  flatter,  I  am  too  true ; 

Oh,  much  too  true  ; 
I  like  a  many,  love  but  few, 
And  love  not  you. 

BINO. 

Shield  me,  ye  sacred  Nine,  who  were  every 
one  a  woman  !  An  improvising  lady !  I  am 
dumb  before  genius. 


FIRE-FLIES.  59 

BlCE. 

I  can  no  more,  sir.  Once  in  twenty-four  hours 
I  am  a  poet  for  five  minutes. 

BINO. 

And  I  have  known  more  famous  bards  who 
were  poets  but  once  in  ten  years. 

BICE. 
Indeed  ? 

Bisro. 

And  that  was  in  their  youth.  When  the 
hoary  head  was  crowned,  there  was  but  prose  in 
the  shrunken  heart. 

BICE. 
Are  you  a  neglected  poet  ? 

BlNO. 

Whether  I  am  a  poet,  I  know  not.  I  know 
that  I  am  neglected,  and  chiefly  by  ladies. 

BICE. 

That  is  a  vile  manner  of  boasting  your  suc- 
cesses. 

BINO. 
Believe  me,  no.     I  speak  in  sober  truth. 


60  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

BlCE. 

Truth  and  soberness  !    And  you  boasted  your- 
self a  poet. 

BINO. 
Never. 

BICE. 

Have  you  no  imagination  ?    Speak  poetry,  as 
you  are  a  poet. 

BlKO. 

You  will  scorn  me,  as  you  are  a  woman.     But 
stay.     I  am  possessed  by  the  god.     Now  the  di- 
vine madness  works.     You  draw  poetry  to  you, 
lady,  as  the  moon  the  tide.     Hush  ! 
0  dainty  mask,  like  our  Italian  night, 

Most  beautiful,  and  hiding  all  but  stars, 
Whose  is  the  face  thou  hidest  from  my  sight  ? 
— Would  I  could  find  some  other  rhyme  than 
"wars." 

May  wars  never  come  between  us ! 

BICE. 
My  lips  were  not  the  first  to  frame  the  word. 

BIKO. 

Thy  lips  should  frame  things  sweeter  than 
mere  speech. 


FIRE-FLIES.  61 

BlCE. 

I  know  no  rhyme  more  gracious  than,  Ab- 
surd ! 

BIND. 
And  I  no  rhyme  less  terrible  than,  Breach  ! 

BICE. 

In  truth,  I  fear  you  are  but  a  camp-singer, 
for  war  and  breach  come  quickest  to  your  lips. 
You  are  no  poet  for  a  lady's  chamber,  to  conjure 
a  nap  before  dressing-time.  Eather  you  should 
swagger  in  camp,  and  be  clapped  on  the  shoulder 
by  comrade  This  and  comrade  That,  with,  "A 
draught  of  wine,  my  lad  !  "  or,  "A  rousing  song, 
my  boy  ! "  Ah,  if  you  should  be  less  a  poet  than 
a  swashbuckler ! 

BINO. 

For  it's  ho  !  wine  ho  ! 

And  give  me  a  flagon  of  wine, 
Till  here  and  there  I  go, — what  ho  ! 
And  reeling  to  and  fro, — what  ho  ! 

Feel  all  the  world  is  mine. 

BICE. 

A  kitchen-wench  would  cry  "  Good"  to  those 
lines.  They  are  well  enough  to  call  a  tapster — 
.  what  ho  ! 


62  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

BlJSTO. 

0  lady  of  the  starry  eyes, 

0  lady  of  the  bitter  tongue, 
Lips  should  be  taught  more  sweet  replies, 

While  you  and  I  are  young. 

BICE. 

Are  you  young  ?  Many  a  mask  hides  wrin- 
kles. 

Bisro. 

Not  yours,  on  my  life  !  Your  mouth  is  not 
old. 

BICE. 

No  younger  than  my  face,  I  give  you  my 
word. 

BINO. 
I  believe  you. 

BICE. 

'Tis  a  marvel  if  a  man  believes  a  woman.  We 
tell  men  the  truth,  they  believe  the  opposite  : 
and  so  we  deceive  them  very  pleasantly,  and  our 
conscience  is  saved. 

BlBTO. 

By  your  lips,  you  are  young. 

BICE. 

You  wear  a  mask  on  your  mouth. 


FIRE-FLIES.  63 

BlKO. 

Nay,  'tis  but  an  indifferent  mustache. 

BICE. 
A  most  delicate  fringe  for  fibs. 

Bisro. 
I  know  that  you  are  pretty.     Is  not  that  true  ? 

BICE. 

It  is  not  true  that  you  know  it.     I  wear  a 
mask. 

BIKO. 

I  know  whose  face  is  under  it. 

BICE. 
No  man  in  the  city  knows  that. 

BIKO. 

But  we  are  in  fairyland,  and  I  know. 
A  flower  city,  rose  of  all  the  earth, 

Most  naughty  city  if  all  tales  be*true, 
To  one  true  woman  of  true  race  gave  birth — 

That  truant  true  and  dainty  dame  is — 

BICE. 

Not  I,  in  faith.     There  is  no  truth  in  poetry 


64  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

even  when  bad.  I  am  not  the  Vera.  I  am  but 
that  Bice  who  is  known  to  friendly  citizens  as 
Bice  of  the  yellow  hair. 

BIKO. 

Not  you.  On  my  life,  you  are  not  she.  And 
pray,  how  know  you  the  lady  ? 

BICE. 

So  we  tell  men  the  truth,  and  they  believe  the 
opposite.  0  most  exquisite  sweet  gulls  !  And 
you  know  this  little  Bice  then,  who  I  am  not  ? 

BIKO. 
A  little. 

BICE. 
Is  she  so  sharp  of  tongue  as  they  say  ? 

BIKO. 
Her  speech  is  gentle  and  her  eyes  soft. 

BICE. 
So  not  like  my  eyes. 


Your  eyes  !  Why,  they  are  afire  with  all  the 
mischief  of  Europe  !  They  twinkle  like  two 
naughty  stars  which  love  to  cheat  the  mariner. 


FIRE-FLIES.  65 

BlCE. 

And  yet  they  are  the  eyes  of  none  other  than 
Bice. 

BINQ. 
Let  me  look  closer. 

BICE. 
Whose  eyes  are  those  that  look  ? 


None  know  better  than  you, 

BICE, 
Whose  ? 

BINO. 

Ah,  the  little  imperious  one  !  I  will  tell  you. 
I  am  the  last  man  in  this  assembly  who  should 
declare  himself  to-night,  and  for  that  sufficient 
reason  I  will  incontinently  tell  you  that  I  am  he. 

BICE. 
Who? 

BINO. 

He  who  is  more  famous  for  his  heels  than  his 

head  ;  he  who  is  the  sworn  comrade  and  boon 

companion  of  the  duchess's  ape,  the  prince  of  im- 

provising rhymers,  the  loose  ingredients  of  a  poet, 

5 


66  LITTLE   COMEDIES. 

the  pudding  that  never  went  into  the  bag,  one 
who  will  eat  green  figs  against  any  man  or  mule 
in  Italy,  the  darling  of  his  mother  when  his  hair 
is  dressed,  the  beloved  of  all  ladies,  himself  more 
madman  than  lover,  the  one  happy  idler,  and 
known  to  all  decorous  citizens  from  the  father  of 
the  senate  to  the  cook's  new  dog  with  the  liver 
patch  over  his  right  eye  as  Bino  of  the  merry 
heart. 

BICE. 
No  !  on  my  life  you  are  not  he. 

BINO. 

And  so  you  know  this  Bino  ? 

BICE. 
A  little.     He  left  the  city  to-day. 


Who  bade  him  stay  for  this  sweet  night  of 
revel  ? 

BICE. 
He  did  not  stay,  believe  me. 

BINO. 

I  am  he,  believe  me  or  not  as  you  will,  but 
you  know  it. 


FIRE-FLIES.  67 

BlCE. 
Stand  in  the  moonlight. 

BINO. 

Little  princess,  how  you  command  me  !  You 
bid  me  do  what  I  ought  not,  and  therefore  do  I 
obey  you. 

0  moon,  my  lady  moon, 

Sweet  lady  of  the  night 
Lend  me  thy  light, 
And  bid  this  fairer  lady  answer  soon 
If  I  am  Messer  Bino.     Now  behold  ! 
Dian  doth  kiss  me,  and  the  tale  is  told. 

(He  bares  his  face  to  the  moonlight,  and  there  is 
silence  between  them.) 

BICE. 
You  are  not  the  Bino  that  I  knew. 

BINO. 

The  only  one  of  the  world,  the  very  paragon 
of  philosophers. 

BICE. 

My  Bino  was  a  truer  man. 

BINO. 

Thy  Bino  !  And  who  gave  him  to  thee  ?  But 
he  is  thine,  all  thine — for  an  hour  or  so. 


68  LITTLE   COMEDIES. 

BlCE. 
Good-by. 

BIHO. 

You  must  not  go  till  I  have  seen  thee.  The 
stars  have  seen  my  face.  Let  them  see  thine  and 
learn  to  love. 

BICE. 

Good-by. 

Bisro. 

And  if  it  must  be,  well.  I  will  not  be  so  un- 
mannerly to  hold  a  lady  here  against  her  will. 
To  our  next  merry  meeting  ! 

BICE. 
I  leave  the  place  to-morrow.     Good-by. 

Bi^ro. 

The  whole  city  will  follow  you,  from  the  head 
of  the  Council  to  the  cook's  dog  aforesaid,  lean 
princes  and  fat  citizens,  churches,  and  palaces. 
Why,  the  very  bridges  will  run  away  with  the 
river.  The  city  can  not  be  without  you,  or  I  can 
breathe  without  breath.  To  our  next  merry 
meeting  ! 

BICE. 

Good-by. 

Bisro. 

By  the  town-clerk  you  have  no  more  variety 
than  the  cuckoo.  Good-by  !  Cuckoo  ! 


FIRE-FLIES.  69 

BlCE. 
Good-by. 

BIKO. 

Cuckoo  ! 

(As  BICE  passes  away  into  shadow,  one  of  the  big 
windows  is  darkened  by  a  band  of  revelers, 
who  pour  forth  on  to  the  terrace  with  laugh- 
ter and  riot.  As  they  flit  in  the  moonlight 
with  snatches  of  song,  they  leave  the  Vera 
alone  in  the  window.  She  stands  distinct 
against  the  yellow  glare,  which  touches  her 
hair  with  flame,  but  the  moonshine  is  uncer- 
tain on  her  face.  Is  it  she  or  the  tremulous 
light  that  is  laughing  9  Bino  looks  at  her, 
and  sees  a  witch  or  a  ghost.  As  he  stands 
staring,  the  masks  come  laughing  once  more, 
dancing  with  arms  entwined,  and  bearing 
onward  in  their  midst  BICE,  half  unwilling. 
As  BINO  goes  quickly  to  them,  they  wheel 
away,  and  leave  the  lady  standing.  Once 
again  they  darken  the  yellow  light  of  the 
window,  and  when  they  are  gone,  the  Vera 
is  seen  there  no  more.) 

BINO. 

By  magic  and  moonshine,  lady,  who  are  you  ? 

BICE. 
Am  I  not  the  Vera  ? 


70  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

BltfO. 

No. 

BICE. 

Alas  !  no.   I  am  not  gay,  nor  witty,  nor  pretty. 

Bisro. 

I  can  not  see,  but  I  know  that  you  are  fairer 
than  she. 

BICE. 

You  like  me,  then  ? 

BLNTO. 

Like  !  The  word  is  colder  than  the  breath  of 
Boreas.  There  is  no  such  word  in  my  language. 
I  adore  you. 

BICE. 

You  will  add  me  to  the  list  ?  0  joy  !  Quick 
with  your  tablets.  List  of  fair  ladies  beloved  by 
Messer  Bino  : 

1.  TheVera. 

2.  The  unknown  of  the  mask. 

3.  Bice  the  biondina. 

BINO. 

Bice! 

BICE. 

Ay,  so  they  say.     But  I  doubt  if  she  be  fair 


FIRE-FLIES.  71 

enough  to  grace  the  triumph  of  so  great  a  con- 
queror.    I  have  heard  that  she  is  crooked. 

BIKO. 
It  was  not  true. 

BICE. 
That  her  tongue  is  too  sharp. 

BIKO. 
The  kindest  speech  in  Europe. 

BICE. 
That  her  hair  was  not  always  so  yellow. 

BINO. 

The  angels  wove  it  of  sunbeams. 

BICE. 

The  Graces  help  us  !  He  has  an  attack  of 
poetry.  And  so  this  little  Bice  is  still  on  {he  list. 
Strike  out  the  fair  unknown  ;  and  so,  once  more, 
Good-by. 

BIKO. 

I  love  all  ladies.    Leave  me  not  alone. 

BICE. 

A  devouring  monster ! 


72  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

Brsro. 

Nay,  I  am  but  like  Cerberus,  with  three  pairs 
of  lips. 

BICE. 

A  most  monstrous  similitude.     For  see  how 
far  you  must  eyer  be  from  the  gates  of  Paradise, 

BIKO. 
I  am  near  thee. 

BICE. 
Stand  back,  faithless  man. 

BINO. 
I  am  all  faith. 

BICE. 
For  all  women. 

BINO. 

But  I  love  in  degrees,     I  pray  you,  let  me  see 
your  face. 

BICE. 

Swear  that  I  have  no  rival,  and  I  unmask. 


How  can  I  swear  it  ? 

BICE. 
With  your  triple  mouth,  and  in  each  a  double 


FIRE-FLIES.  73 

tongue.     I  am  jealous  of  this  Bice,  with  her  hair 
woven  of  sunbeams,  forsooth. 

BIHO. 

Put  back  your  hood,  and  I  will  praise  your 
locks  more  prettily. 

BICE. 

It  is  said  that  you  are  promised  to  this  Bice. 

BIKO. 
And  you  believe  it  ? 

BICE. 

It  is  said  that  she  is  beautiful. 

BINO. 
Not  beside  thee.     I  pray  thee,  show  thy  face. 

BICE. 
That  she  is  very  wise. 

BIKO. 

Believe  me,  no.     Unmask. 

BICE. 

Then  she  is  ill-favored,  foolish,  and  you  love 
her  not. 


74  LITTLE   COMEDIES. 

BlNO. 

Yes,  yes.     Now  let  me  look  on  thee. 

BICE. 

0  moon,  my  lady  moon, 

Sweet  lady  of  the  night, 

Lend  me  thy  light, 

And  bid  this  exquisite  gay  masker  swoon 
At  sight  of  hair  the  angels  wove  from  gold  ; 
Dian  doth  kiss  me,  and  the  tale  is  told. 

(She  lares  her  face  to  the  moonlight,  and 
there  is  silence  between  them.) 

BINO. 
Bice! 

BICE. 

Ill-f ayored,  foolish,  and  unloved. 

BIKO. 
Bice  ! 

BICE. 

Most  wearisome  iteration.     Cuckoo  .! 

BINO. 
What  shall  I  say  ? 

BICE. 
Nothing. 


FIRE-FLIES.  75 

BlNO. 
What  can  I  do  ? 

BICE. 
Nothing  but  go. 

BINO. 

0  Bice,  spare  me  !    I  love  none  but  you. 

BICE. 
And  the  masked  lady  ? 

BINO. 

1  was  but  curious,  no  more. 

BICE. 

Have  men  no  vices  that  they  must  rob  woman 
of  her  only  fault  ?    Leave  curiosity  to  us. 

BINO. 
Bice,  if  you  love  me — 

BICE. 
I  love  you  not. 

Bisro. 
Forgive  me. 

BICE. 

No.     Good-by. 


76  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

BlNO. 

Good-by.     But  stay.     Something  puzzles  me. 
Why  are  you  here  ? 

BICE. 
I  ?    Because  the  Vera  sent  for  me. 

BINO. 
And  I  for  the  same  reason. 

BICE. 

No.     I  came  for  my  pleasure. 

BIKO. 

And  I  for  mine. 

BICE. 
Most  wickedly. 

BIKO. 

And  you  ? 

BICE  AND  BINO. 


How  could  you  think  of  pleasure  on  the  very 
day  of  our  parting  ? 

BIKO. 

I  always  think  of  pleasure.     I  was  made  so. 
Is  it  very  wrong  to  be  happy  ? 


FIRE-FLIES.  77 

BlCE. 

Perhaps  not.     Alas  !  I  am  womanly  weak  in 
argument. 

BIKO. 

I  will  reason  and  you  shall  love.     The  head 
and  the  heart  are  best  together. 

BICE. 
We  are  young.     It  is  not  wrong  to  be  young. 

BlHO. 

And  we  love  each  other. 

BICE. 
To  love  is  one  thing,  to  laugh  is  another. 

BIKO. 

Yet  love  and  laughter  fly  well  together,  as  the 
doves  of  Venus. 

BICE. 

Can  you  laugh  with  all,  and  love  but  one  ? 

BIHO. 
I  have.     I  do.     I  will. 

BICE. 
I  will,  too. 


78  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 


There  are  a  myriad  stars,  and  but  one  moon. 

BICE. 

There  are  many  nights  in  the  year,  but  never 
another  like  this. 

BINO. 

It  is  a  night  for  dancing. 

BICE. 
It  is  a  night  for  laughter. 

BLNTO. 

It  is  a  night  for  love. 

BICE. 

For  mandoline,  guitar,  quick  vows,  and  quick 
forgetting. 


For  countless  ripples  of  folly  and  one  deep  sea 
of  love. 

BICE. 

Let  us  dance. 

Bi^o. 
Let  us  be  happy  together. 


FIRE-FLIES.  79 

BICE. 
Joyous  together,  and  not  unhappy  apart. 


Never  apart  and  ever  happy.     Let  us  dance. 

(So  they  flit  in  the  moonlight  ;  the  Vera 
comes  stepping  through  the  window,  but 
they  see  her  not  ;  behind  her  the  masks 
are  peering.  The  music  swells  forth 
triumphant,  and  slowly  dies  to  silence; 
the  lights  in  the  palace  grow  faint  and 
fainter,  and  die  ;  a  mist  creeps  up  from 
the  river,  a  cloud  goes  over  the  moon; 
there  is  night  and  nothing  more.) 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES. 


CHARACTERS. 


MRS.  MELTON. 
LORD  DAWLISH. 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES. 


It  is  morning  in  MRS.  MELTOK'S  apartment  in 
Florence.  A II  the  furniture  is  gathered  into 
the  middle  of  the  room,  and  covered  with  a 
sheet.  MRS.  MELTOK  is  a  widow,  and  no 
longer  young.  LORD  DAWLISH,  loJio  comes 
to  call,  has  also  forgotten  his  youth. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Good  morning,  Mrs.  Melton.  I  hope — Hol- 
loa !  There  is  nobody  here.  What  is  all  this 
about  ? 

(After  some  consideration,  he  proceeds  to  in- 
vestigate the  extraordinary  erection  with 
the  point  of  his  sticlc.  After  convincing 
himself  of  its  nature,  he  lifts  a  side  of 
the  sheet,  pulls  out  an  easy-chair,  in- 
spects it,  and  finally  sits  on  it.) 

She  is  an  extraordinary  woman.     I  don't  know 
why  I  like  her.     I  don't  know  why  she  likes  me. 


84  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

I  suppose  that  she  does  like  me.  If  not,  what  a 
bore  I  must  be  !  I  come  here  every  day — and 
stay.  I  suspect  that  I  am  an  awful  fellow  to 
stay.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  go  now.  This  furni- 
ture trophy  don't  look  like  being  at  home  to 
callers.  But  perhaps  she  is  out  :  and  then  I  can 
go  on  sitting  here.  I  must  sit  somewhere.  May 
I  smoke  ?  I  dare  say  :  thank  ye,  I  will.  Smoke  ? 
Smoke.  There  is  a  proverb  about  smoke.  I 
wonder  how  I  came  to  know  so  many  proverbs. 
I  don't  know  much.  "  There  is  no  smoke  with- 
out fire."  Yes,  that's  it.  There  is  uncommon 
little  fire  in  a  cigarette.  Little  fire  and  much 
smoke.  Yes,  that's  like  this —  I  mean —  Let  me 
— what  d'ye  call  it? — review  my  position.  Here 
I  sit.  Here  I  sit  every  day.  That  is  smoke,  I 
suppose — plenty  of  smoke.  Is  there  any  fire  ? 
That  is  the  question.  I  wish  people  would  mind 
their  own  business.  It  is  trouble  enough  to  mind 
one's  own  business,  I  should  think.  But  yet  there 
are  people — there's  that  Flitterly,  for  instance — 
damned  little  snob.  Flitterly  makes  it  the  busi- 
ness of  his  life  to  go  about  saying  that  I  am  going 
to  be  married ;  and  all  because  here  is  a  woman 
who  is  not  such  an  intolerable  bore  as — as  other 
people.  Flitterly  is  the  sort  of  man  who  says 
that  there  is  no  smoke  without  fire.  What  is  this  ? 
That  is  what  I  want  to  know.  Is  this  business  of 
mine  all  smoke,  all  cigarette  and  soda,  or — con- 
found Flitterly  !  I  wonder  if  I  ought  to  pull  his 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES.  85 

nose.  I  am  afraid  that  that  sort  of  thing  is  out 
of  date.  I  don't  think  I  could  pull  a  nose,  unless 
somebody  showed  me  how.  Perhaps  if  somebody 
held  him  steady,  I  might.  I  don't  think  I  could 
do  it.  He  has  got  such  a  ridiculous  little  nose. 
I  wonder  if  I  ought  to  give  up  coming  here.  I 
don't  know  where  I  should  go  to.  I  wonder  if  I 
am  bound  in  honor,  and  all  that.  Perhaps  that 
is  out  of  date,  too.  1  sometimes  think  that  I  am 
out  of  date  myself.  (After  this  he  fishes  under 
the  sheet  with  his  stick,  and  brings  to  light  a  pho- 
tograph-booh, which  he  studies  as  he  continues  to 
meditate. ) 

I  wonder  if  she  would  take  me  if  I  asked  her. 
I  don't  believe  she  would  :  she  is  a  most  extraor- 
dinary woman.  Who  is  this,  I  wonder  ?  I  never 
saw  this  book  before.  I  suppose  that  this  is  the  sort 
of  man  women  admire.  He  would  know  how  to 
pull  a  nose.  I  dare  say  he  has  pulled  lots  of  noses 
in  his  day.  Does  it  for  exercise.  Suburban  cad  ! 
A  kind  of  little  Tooting  lady-killer.  I  wonder 
she  puts  such  a  fellow  in  her  book.  Why,  here 
he  is  again,  twice  as  big  and  fiercer.  Here  is  an- 
other— and  another.  Hang  him,  he  is  all  over 
the  book  ! 

(He  pitches  the  book  under  the  sheet.  Then 
MBS.  MELTON  comes  in,  wearing  a  large 
apron,  and  armed  with  duster  and 
feather  brush.) 


86  LITTLE   COMEDIES. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Lord  Dawlish  !     What  are  you  doing  here  ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Nothing. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
How  well  you  do  it ! 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Thank  you. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

But  you  are  doing  something  :  you  are  smok- 
ing. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Am  I  ?    I  beg  your  pardon. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

And  you  shall  do  more  :  you  shall  help  me. 
I  have  been  up  to  my  eyes  in  work  since  seven 
o'clock. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Seven  !  Why  don't  you  make  somebody  else 
doit? 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Because  I  do  it  so  well.  I  have  a  genius  for 
dusting,  and  Italian  servants  have  not.  In  this 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES.  87 

old  city  they  have  an  unfeigned  respect  for  the 
dust  of  ages. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Have  they  ?  How  funny  !  But  they  might 
help  you,  I  should  think.  Where  are  they  ? 
There  was  nobody  to  let  me  in.  Where  are  your 
servants  ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Gone. 

LOKD  DAWLISH. 
Gone  ! 

MRS.  MELTOK. 

Gone,  and  left  me  free.  I  packed  them  all  off 
— man  and  maid,  bag  and  baggage. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
But  who  will  look  after  you  ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 

I.  I  am  fully  equal  to  the  task.  But  come, 
be  useful.  You  shall  help  me  to  rearrange  the 
furniture. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Help!    I! 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Yes,  help  !  You  !  I  am  not  quite  sure  that 
you  can't. 


88  LITTLE   COMEDIES. 

(As  he  proceeds  to  brush  the  lack  of  a  chair 
with  a  feather  brush,  it  occurs  to  him 
to  apologize  for  his  intrusion.) 

LOED  DAWLISH. 

I  suppose  I  ought  to  apologize  for  coming  so 
early.  Somehow  I  found  myself  in  the  Palazzo 
— and  the  door  of  your  apartments  was  open,  and 
so  I  came  in.  I  took  the  liberty  of  an  old  friend. 

MKS.  MELTON. 

I  believe  we  have  been  acquainted  for  at  least 
a  month. 

LOED  DAWLISH. 

Only  a  month  !  It  is  not  possible.  It  must 
be  more  than  a  month. 

MES.  MELTON. 

Apparently  our  precious  friendship  has  not 
made  the  time  pass  quickly. 

LOED  DAWLISH. 
No.     I  mean  that  it  never  does  pass  quickly. 

MES.  MELTON. 

Work,  work,  work  !  It's  work  that  makes  the 
day  go  quick.  I  am  busy  from  morning  till  night, 
and  time  flies  with  me. 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES.  89 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Then  you  shorten  your  life. 

MRS.  MELTOK. 

And  keep  it  bright.  Better  one  hour  of  life 
than  a  century  of  existence !  Dear,  dear  !  how 
did  my  best  photograph-book  get  knocked  down 
here  ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

I  am  afraid  that  that  was  my  awkwardness. 
I  was  looking  at  it,  and  it — it  went  down  there. 

MRS.  MELTOK. 

Don't  let  it  break  from  you  again.  Here,  take 
it,  and  sit  down  and  be  good.  You  have  no  genius 
for  dusting. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Nobody  ever  called  me  a  genius.  I  have  been 
called  all  sorts  of  names ;  but  nobody  ever  went 
so  far  as  to  call  me  a  genius. 

MRS.  MELTOST. 

And  yet  you  ain't  stupid.  I  always  maintain 
that  you  are  not  really  stupid. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Ain't  I  ?  Thank  you.  Who  is  this  man — 
this  fine-looking  man  with  the  frown  and  whiskers  ? 


90  LITTLE   COMEDIES. 

MBS.  MELTON. 
He  is  handsome,  isn't  he  ? 

LOKD  DAWLISH. 
I  don't  know.    I  am  not  a  judge  of  male  beauty. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Men  never  admire  each  other.  They  are  too 
envious  and  too  vain. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Are  they  ?    And  women  ?    What  are  women  ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 

What  are  women  ?  What  are  they  not  ?  Oh, 
for  one  word  to  comprehend  the  sex !  Women 
are — yes,  women  are  womanly. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
That  sounds  true.    And  women  are  effeminate. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Only  females  are  effeminate. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Oh  !  I  wonder  what  that  means. 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES.  91 

MRS.  MELTON. 
But  John  is  handsome.     Ask  any  woman. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
John ! 

MRS.  MELTOST. 
Yes,  that's  John — my  cousin. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

I  hate  cousins.  They  are  so  familiar  and  so 
personal. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

I  like  them.     They  are  so — so — 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Cousinly. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Precisely. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Cousins  are  cousinly.  Does  he  dye  his  whisk- 
ers ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Dye  !  Never  !  He  has  too  much  to  do.  John 
is  a  great  man — a  man  of  will,  a  man  of  force,  a 
man  of  iron.  That's  what  I  call  a  man. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Do  you  ?    I  don't  call  an  iron  man  a  man. 


92  LITTLE   COMEDIES. 

MBS.  MELTON. 
He  is  the  first  of  American  engineers. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
A  Yankee  stoker. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Dear  John  !    He  is  a  good  fellow.     He  gave 
me  that  little  jar  by  your  hand. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Dear  John  is  not  a  judge  of  china.    I  always 
hated  that  little  jar.     I  shall  break  it  some  day. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
If  you  do,  I'll  never  speak  to  you  again. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Please  do.     Tell  me  some  more  about  John. 
Has  not  he  got  a  fault,  not  even  a  little  one  ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 

He  has  the  fault  of  all  men — vanity.     He 
knows  that  he  is  handsome. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
I  thought  he  dyed  his  whiskers. 


PICKING  UP  THE   PIECES.  93 

MBS.  MELTON. 
He  does  not  dye  his  whiskers. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

You  seem  very  keen  about  the  whiskers. 
Here  they  are  in  all  sizes,  and  from  all  over  the 
world — carte-de-visite  whiskers,  cabinet  whiskers, 
Kembrandt-effect  whiskers,  whiskers  from  Naples, 
from  New  York,  from  Baker  Street.  You  must 
like  them  very  much. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

I  like  the  man.  I  like  self-respect,  bravery, 
and  perseverance.  I  like  honest  work.  Oh, 
Lord  Dawlish,  what  a  shame  it  is  that  you  don't 
do  something ! 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Do  something  ?  I  ?  I  do  do  something.  I 
— well,  I  go  about. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Oh  !  you  go  about. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Yes — with  a  dog  in  England ;  without  a  dog 
abroad. 


94  LITTLE   COMEDIES. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Oh  !  abroad  without  a  dog.     I  regret  that  I 
shall  never  have  the  pleasure  of  receiving  the  cur. 

LOUD  DAWLISH. 
The  cur's  a  collie. 

MBS.  MELTON. 

And  so  you  think  that  man  fulfills  his  destiny 
by  going  about. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Somebody  must  go  about,  you  know. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Yes,  a  squirrel  in  a  cage.     What  you  want  is 
work.     You  ought  to  take  a  line. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Go  fishing  ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Be  serious,  and  listen  to  me.    Here  you  are  in 
Florence. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
I  believe  I  am. 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES.  95 

MKS.  MELTOK. 

Yon  are  in  the  midst  of  priceless  treasures. 
The  finest  works  of  art  are  all  aronnd  yon. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
I  believe  they  are. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Take  a  line ;  take  np  something  ;  for  instance, 
the  Greek  statnes. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Ain't  I  rather  old  to  play  with  marbles  ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Not  a  bit.  Nobody  is  old  who  isn't  old  on 
purpose.  Compare,  classify,  and  make  a  book, 
or  even  a  pamphlet. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

I  hate  pamphlets.  They  are  always  coming 
by  the  post. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

I  snppose  it's  not  the  thing  for  a  man  in  yonr 
position  to  turn  author. 


96  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

I  don't  think  I  ever  did  hear  of  one  of  our  lot 
writing  books.  But  that  don't  much  matter.  I 
should  like  to  take  a  line,  or  a  course,  or  a — I 
took  a  course  of  waters  once  at  Hombourg,  or  Kis- 
singen,  or  somewhere  ;  but  they  came  to  an  end, 
like  other  things. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Lord  Dawlish,  are  you  joking  ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
No. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Then  be  serious  :  take  up  a  subject ;  set  to 
work ;  produce  your  pamphlet — at  least  a  pam- 
phlet. It  might  grow  into  a  book. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Heaven  forbid  !    I  could  not  do  it. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Why  not  ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Writing  a  book  is  so  infernally  public.  I 
should  be  talked  about. 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES.  97 

MRS.  MELTON. 

How  dreadful !  The  owl,  who  is  modest 
withal,  and  shrinks  from  notoriety,  remains  at 
home  until  sunset. 

LOKD  DAWLISH. 

You  called  me  a  squirrel  before.  Are  you 
going  through  all  the  zoological  what-d'ye-call- 
'em? 

MBS.  MELTON. 

Perhaps  even  I  shall  be  talked  about  before 
long. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
I  should  not  wonder  if  you  were. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Yes,  even  I,  humble  individual  as  I  am,  may 
perhaps  be  talked  about  when  I  set  up  my  studio. 

LOKD  DAWLISH. 
Your  what  ? 

MKS.  MELTON. 

My  studio.  Yes,  I've  quite  made  up  my 
mind.  There  are  many  worse  painters  in  Flor- 
ence than  myself.  I  mean  to  be  a  real  painter, 
and  no  longer  play  with  color. 

7 


98  LITTLE   COMEDIES. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
And  sell  your  pictures  ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 
For  the  largest  possible  prices. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Is  not  that  an  odd  sort  of  thing  for  a  lady  ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 

No.   We  have  changed  all  that.    Many  women 
paint  nowadays. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
I  have  heard  so. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

I  believe  that  you  are  making  jokes  this  morn- 
ing. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

I  don't  think  so.     I  don't  like  jokes  ;   they 
are  very  fatiguing.     It's  John's  fault. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
What's  John's  fault  ? 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES.  99 

LOED  DAWLISH. 

No  man  likes  to  have  another  crammed  down 
his  throat — unless  he  is  a  confounded  cannibal. 

MES.  MELTON. 

Very  well.  I  will  refrain  from  cramming  any- 
body down  your  throat.  But  I  won't  let  you  off. 
I  feel  that  I  have  a  mission. 

LOED  DAWLISH. 
Good  heavens ! 

MES.  MELTON. 
I  have  a  mission  to  reform  you. 

LOED  DAWLISH. 
Please  don't  do  it. 

MES.  MELTON. 

I  must.  Why  don't  you  do  your  proper  work  ? 
Why  not  go  back  to  England  and  take  Qare  of 
your  property  ? 

LOED  DAWLISH. 

Because  my  agent  takes  care  of  it  so  much 
better  than  I  could.  I  inherited  my  place,  and  I 
can't  get  rid  of  it.  But,  luckily,  land  can't  fol- 
low me  about.  That  is  why  I  come  abroad. 


m 


100  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Without  the  dog  ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

He  stays  with  the  land.  He  likes  ifc.  He 
hates  traveling. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
So  would  you,  if  you  traveled  in  a  dog-box, 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

I  wish  you  would  not  talk  about  me.  I  am 
so  tired  of  myself. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
But  you  interest  me. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Thank  you.  That  is  gratifying.  Don't  let 
us  pursue  the  subject  further. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

I  must.  It's  my  mission.  I  picture  the  plea- 
sures of  an  English  country  life.  You  build  cot- 
tages ;  you  drain  fields  ;  you  carry  flannel  to  the 
old  women. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

No  ;  I  could  not  do  it.  I  don't  think  I  could 
carry  flannel  to  an  old  woman. 


PICKING  IT?  THE  PIECFS.  1^1 

MRS.  MELTON. 

So  much  for  duties.  Then  for  amusement. 
Are  you  fond  of  shooting  ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Pheasants  are  all  so  much  alike.  I  gave  up 
shooting  when  my  sister  took  to  it. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Your  sister  ! 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

She  is  a  keen  sportsman — awfully  keen.  I 
went  out  with  her  once.  I  feel  them  still  some- 
times in  my  back  when  it's  cold  weather. 

MRS.  MELTOK. 

You  like  hunting  better.  In  this  country 
they  shoot  the  fox. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Do  they  ?  That  must  be  curious.  I  wonder 
if  1  could  bring  myself  to  try  that.  I  almost 
think  that — 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Go  home  and  hunt. 


Ip2  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

I  have  given  up  hunting.  Kather  rough  on 
Teddie,  don't  you  think  ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Who's  Teddie  ? 

LOUD  DAWLISH. 
Don't  you  know  Teddie  ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Is  he  the  dog  ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

No  ;  he  is  my  brother.  I  thought  that  every- 
body knew  Teddie.  Teddie  knows  everybody. 
Teddie  likes  me  to  hunt.  He  is  always  bothering 
me  to  buy  horses — with  tricks.  Or  to  go  by  ex- 
cursion trains.  Or  to  shoot  lions  in  Abyssinia. 
He  is  an  awfully  ambitious  fellow,  Teddie.  Don't 
you  think  we  might  change  the  subject  ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Not  yet.  I  have  not  done  my  duty  yet. 
Politics !  Oh  for  political  influence  !  Oh  for 
power  !  Why,  you  must  be — of  course  you  are  a 
— thingummy  what's-his-name. 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES.  103 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Very  likely,  if  you  say  so. 

MKS.  MELTON. 

An  hereditary  legislator.  Think  of  that. 
Think  of  your  influence  in  the  country  ;  of  the 
power  you  might  wield.  Go  in  for  politics. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Well,  you  know,  I — I  inherited  my  politics 
with  my  place,  and  I  can't  get  rid  of  them.  But 
Teddie  does  them  for  me.  He  was  always  rather 
a  muff,  Teddie  was ;  and  so  they  put  him  into 
politics. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Are  there  muffs  in  your  family  ?  Don't  inter- 
rupt me.  I  must  have  the  last  word.  Anything 
else  I  will  give  up,  hut  the  last  word — never.  In 
your  position  you  must  sway  something.  If  you 
won't  sway  the  country,  sway  the  county  ;  if  you 
won't  sway  the  county,  sway  a  vestry,  a  workhouse, 
a  something,  or  anything.  Only  do  something. 
You  would  be  a  great  deal  happier,  and — I  don't 
know  why  I  should  be  afraid  to  say — a  great  deal 
better,  if  you  would  only  do  something. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
You  forget  that  I  am  delicate.     The  doctors 


104  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

say  I  am  delicate,  and  that  is  why  I  come  abroad. 
I  do  wish  you  would  change  the  subject.  It  is  a 
delicate  subject,  you  know. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Don't  be  funny  !    You  have  only  one  malady 
— idleness. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

No,  no,  no  !     All  the  doctors 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Quacks ! 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

As  you  please.  But  I  have  not  the  rude  health 
of  some  strong-minded  women. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Nor  I  the  rude  manners  of  some  weak-minded 
men.     But  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  /  won't  be  rude. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Was  I  rude  ?   I  am  awfully  sorry.    I  beg  your 
pardon.     But  I  am  so  tired  of  myself. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Then  work — work  and  be  cured.     Do  some- 
thing— anything.     A  stitch  in  time  saves  nine. 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES.  105 

LOED  DAWLISH. 

Oh,  if  you  come  to  proverbs — Look  before  you 
leap. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

More  haste,  less  speed.  If  one  does  nothing, 
at  least  one  does  no  harm. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Nor  does  a  stuffed  poodle. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Another  beast !  I  have  been  a  squirrel  and  an 
owl.  And,  after  all,  I  did  not  come  here  to  talk 
about  myself  nor  poodles. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Did  you  come  to  speak  of  the  weather  ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
I  wanted  to  speak  about  you. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
About  me  !    Here's  a  turning  of  the  tables. 


106  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
May  I  ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 
If  you  have  energy  for  so  lively  a  topic. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
May  I  speak  plainly,  as  an  old  friend  ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 

As  a  month-old  friend.  Speak  plainly  by  all 
means.  Fve  a  passion  for  plain  speaking. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

It  is  an  uncommonly  disagreeable  subject. 

i 
MRS.  MELTON. 

Thank  you.  You  were  going  to  talk  about 
me. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

I  don't  mean  that;  of  course  not.  It  does 
not  matter  whether  I  talk  about  you  or  not. 
But  there  are  other  people  here  who  talk  about 
you. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Talk  about  me  ?    What  do  they  say  ? 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES  107 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

They  say  things  I  don't  like;  so  I  thought 
that  I— 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Thank  you,  Lord  Dawlish ;  but  I  can  take 
very  good  care  of  myself. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Very  well. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Why  should  I  care  what  this  Anglo-Floren- 
tine Society  say  of  me  ?  It  doesn't  hurt  me  ;  I 
don't  care  what  they  say  of  me  ;  I  am  entirely 
indifferent ;  I  am —  Oh,  do  not  stand  there  like 
a  stick,  but  tell  me  what  these  people  say  about 
me  ! 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

I — I —  It  is  so  awkward  for  me  to  tell  you. 
You  know  Flitterly  ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Flitterly  !    A  sparrow  ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Oh,  he  is  a  sparrow  !  What  is  to  be  done  to 
the  sparrow  ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Nothing.      He   is  beneath   punishment — be- 


108  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

neath  contempt.  A  little,  chattering,  intrusive, 
cruel —  I  suppose  it  would  not  do  for  me  to 
horeswhip  Flitterly  ? 

LOUD  DAWLISH. 

It  would  be  better  for  me  to  do  that.  I 
thought  of  pulling  his  nose :  it  is  a  little  one ; 
but  I  might  do  it  with  time.  I  think  I  should 
enjoy  it. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

It's  too  bad  !  It's  too  bad  that  a  woman  of  my 
age  should  not  be  safe  from  these  wretches — from 
the  tongues  of  these  malicious  chatterers.  The 
cowards,  to  attack  a  woman  ! 

LOED  DAWLISH. 
I  was  afraid  that  you  would  feel  it. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

I  don't  feel  it.  -Why  should  I  ?  Why  should 
I  feel  it  ?  But,  good  gracious  !  is  the  man  going 
to  stand  there  all  day,  and  never  tell  me  what 
this — what  that — that — pha  !  what  lie  says  of  me  ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
I  don't  like  to  tell  you. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Do  you  take  me  for  a  fool,  Lord  Dawlish  ? 


PICKING  UP  THE   PIECES.  109 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
No  ;  for  a  woman. 

MRS.  MELTOST. 
What  does  he  say  ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

If  you  will  know,  you  must.  He  says — he 
says  that  you  and  I  are  going  to  be  married. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Married!  You  and  I!  Well,  at  least,  he 
might  have  invented  something  less  preposterous. 

LOUD  DAWLISH. 
Preposterous  ! 

MBS.  MELTON. 
You  and  I ! 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

I  don't  see  anything  preposterous  in  it.  Why 
should  not  you  and  I  be  married  ?  By  George,  I 
have  made  an  offer  ! 

MRS.   MELTON. 
Are  you  mad  ?    You  say — 


110  LITTLE   COMEDIES. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Oh,  I  don't  want  to  hurry  you.  Don't  speak 
in  a  hurry.  Think  it  over  ;  think  it  over.  Take 
time. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

But  do  you  mean — 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Oh,  please,  don't  hurry.  Think  it  over. 
Any  time  will  do. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Will  it  ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

I  am  not  clever,  nor  interesting ;  but  if  you 
don't  mind  me,  I  will  do  anything  I  can.  You 
shall  have  any  sort  of  society  you  like  :  fast  or 
slow  ;  literary  or  swell ;  or  anything.  Of  course 
there  would  be  plenty  of  money,  and  jewels,  and 
cooks,  and  all  that.  You  can  have  gowns,  and 
check-books,  and  pin-money,  and — 

MRS.  MELTON. 

And  find  my  own  washing  and  beer.  Lord 
Dawlish,  are  you  offering  me  a  situation  ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Yes — no — I  mean  that  I — 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES.  m 

MKS.  MELTON. 

A  thousand  thanks.  The  wages  are  most 
tempting ;  but  I  have  no  thought  of  leaving  my 
present  place. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

I  fear  that  I  have  been  offensive.  I  beg  your 
pardon.  I  had  better  go.  Good  morning,  Mrs. 
Melton. 

MKS.  MELTON. 

Good-by,  Lord  Dawlish. 

(So  he  goes  out;  straightway  her  mood 
changes,  and  she  wishes  lyim  back  again. ) 

MKS.  MELTON  (sola). 

He  will  never  come  back.  I  can't  let  him  go 
for  ever.  I  can't  afford  to  lose  a  friend  who 
makes  me  laugh  so  much.  Flitterly  may  say 
what  he  likes — a  goose  !  a  sparrow  !  a  grass- 
hopper !  I  shall  call  him  back. 

(So  she  calls  to  him  down  the  stair;  then 
from  the  window  ;  and  as  she  calls  from 
the  window  he  comes  in  at  the  door, 
ivatches  her  awhile,  then  speaks.) 

LOR^  DAWLISH. 
Did  you  call  me,  Mrs.  Melton  ? 


112  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

MKS.  MELTON. 

Is  the  man  deaf  ?  I  have  been  screaming  like 
a  peacock ;  and  all  for  your  sake — all  because  I 
didn't  want  you  to  go  away  angry. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
I  thought  it  was  you  who  were  angry. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
No,  it  was  you. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Very  well. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

You  must  drop  the  preposterous  subject  for 
ever ;  and  we  will  be  good  friends,  as  we  were  be- 
fore. Sit  down  and  be  friendly. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Thank  you .  That  is  capital.  We  will  be  as 
we  were  before — as  we  were  before. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

You  are  sure  you  can  bear  the  disappoint- 
ment ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Oh,  yes.  We  will  befriends,  as  we  were. 
That  is  much  better. 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES.  113 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Lord  Dawlish,  you  are  simply  delicious  ! 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Am  I  ?    Thank  you.     And  I  may  come  and 
sit  here  sometimes  ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 
In  spite  of  Flitterly. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Flitterly  be— 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Yes,  by  all  means. 

(Then  he  meditates,  and  after  due  deliberation 
speaks.) 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

I  should  like  to  ask  you  something,  Mrs.  Mel- 
ton— something  personal. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Ask  what  you  like,  and  I  will  answer  if  I 
choose. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

May  I  ask  as  a  friend — only  as  a  friend,  you 
know — if  you  are  quite  determined  never  to  marry 
8 


114  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

again  ?  I  know  that  it  is  no  business  of  mine  ; 
but  I  can't  help  being  curious  about  you.  I  don't 
think  I  am  curious  about  anything  else.  But  you 
are  such  an  extraordinary  woman. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Extraordinary  because  I  have  refused  to  be 
Lady  Dawlish.  It  is  strange,  very.  Oh,  don't 
be  alarmed ;  I  have  refused.  But  it  is  strange. 
I  am  a  woman,  and  I  refused  rank  and  wealth. 
Wealth  means  gowns  and  cooks  from  Paris,  a 
brougham  and  a  victoria,  a  stepper,  a  tiger,  and 
a  pug  :  rank  means  walking  out  before  other  wo- 
men and  the  envy  of  all  my  sex.  I  am  a  woman, 
and  I  refuse  these  luxuries.  You  were  mad  when 
you  offered  them. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
I  don't  think  that  I  could  be  mad. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Not  another  word  upon  the  subject. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
But  won't  you  satisfy  my  curiosity  ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 
I  never  knew  you  so  persistent. 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES.  115 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
I  never  was  persistent  before. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Such  ardent  curiosity,  such  desperate  per- 
severance, deserve  to  be  rewarded.  I  have  no- 
thing to  do  for  the  moment,  and  there  is  one 
luxury  which  no  woman  can  forego — the  luxury 
of  talking  about  herself.  You  needn't  listen  if 
the  effort  is  too  great:  I  address  the  chair,  or  the 
universe.  You  will  hardly  believe  it  of  me  ;  but 
I  cherish  a  sentiment.  There  !  Years  and  years 
ago — how  many  I  am  woman  enough  not  to 
specify — I  lived  with  an  aunt  in  Paris.  You 
hate  cousins  ;  I  am  not  in  love  with  aunts  :  how- 
ever, she  was  my  only  relation ;  there  was  no 
choice,  and  there  I  lived  with  her  in  Paris,  and 
was  finished  ;  there  was  nothing  to  finish,  for  I 
knew  nothing.  Well,  it  was  there,  in  Paris — I 
was  quite  a  child — it  was  there  that  I  one  day 
met  a  boy  scarcely  older  than  myself.  I  am  in 
love  with  him  still.  Quite  idyllic,  isn't  it  ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Very  likely.     In  Paris  ?    Paris. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
There  never  was  any  one  in  the  world  like 


116  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

him — so  brave,  so  good,  so  boyish  :  he  rejoiced  in 
life,  certain  of  pleasure,  and  purposing  noble  work. 

LOKD  DAWLISH  (aside). 

Cousin  John  !  Cousin  John,  of  course.  Con- 
found Cousin  John  ! 

MRS.  MELTON. 

He  fell  in  love  with  me  at  once,  almost  before 
I  had  fallen  in  love  with  him.  We  were  both  so 
absurdly  shy,  so  silly,  and  so  young.  I  can  see 
him  blush  now,  and  I  could  blush  then.  But  I 
shall  be  sentimental  in  a  minute  ;  this  is  egregious 
folly ;  of  course  it  is  folly,  and  it  was  folly ;  of 
course  it  was  merely  childish  fancy,  boy  and  girl 
sentiment,  calf-love ;  of  course  a  week's  absence 
would  put  an  end  to  it ;  and  of  course  I  love  him 
still.  But  forgive  me,  Lord  Dawlish.  Why  should 
I  bother  you  with  this  worn-out,  commonplace 
romance  ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

I  like  it.  It  interests  me.  Go  on,  if  it  does 
not  bore  you.  It  reminds  me  of  something — of 
something  which  I  had  better  forget. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

You  shall  hear  the  rest:  there  isn't  much. 
He  was  taken  away,  and — I  suppose  forgot  me. 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES.  117 

I  came  out  in  Paris,  went  everywhere,  was  vastly 
gay,  and  terribly  unhappy.  My  aunt  was  young- 
ish, and  good-looking — in  a  way ;  she  was  dying 
to  be  rid  of  me,  and  I  knew  it ;  and  so  things 
were  very  uncomfortable  at  home,  until — until  I 
married.  Oh,  I  told  him  the  truth,  the  whole 
truth :  I  told  him  that  the  love  of  my  life  had 
gone  by.  I  am  glad  I  told  him  the  truth. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
He  was  American,  wasn't  he  ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Yes.  I  was  grateful  to  him,  and  proud  of 
him.  He  was  good  as  man  can  be.  But  he  made 
light  of  my  story.  He  thought,  like  the  rest,  that 
it  was  a  mere  girlish  fancy ;  that  I  should  soon 
forget  that —  There,  you  have  my  story  !  Touch- 
ing, isn't  it  ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
It  is  most  extraordinary. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
What  is  most  extraordinary  ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Your  story  is  like  my  story. 


118  LITTLE   COMEDIES. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

It's  everybody's  story.  It's  common  as  the 
whooping-cough,  and  dull  as  a  great  thaw.  But, 
come,  give  me  the  details  of  your  case. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
The  details  !    If  I  can  remember  them. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
If  you  can  remember.     Who  would  be  a  man  ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
It  was  in  Paris — 

MRS.  MELTON. 
In  Paris  ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

It  is  just  like  your  story.  Suppose  that  we 
take  it  as  told. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Go  on.     I  must  hear  it. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

I  was  sent  to  Paris  when  I  was  a  boy,  with  a 
bear-leader.  There  I  saw  a  girl — a  little  bread- 
and-butter  miss — and — and  I  got  fond  of  her — 
awfully  fond  of  her.  She  was  the  dearest  little 
girl — the  best  little  thing.  She  was  like — like — 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES.  119 

MBS.  MELTON. 
Go  on.     What  happened  ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Nothing. 

MBS.  MELTON. 

Nothing !  Nonsense !  Something  always  hap- 
pens. 

LOBD  DAWLISH. 

Nothing  came  of  it.  They  said  boy  and  girl, 
and  calf-love,  and  all  that,  like  the  people  in  your 
story ;  and  they  packed  me  off  to  England. 

MBS.  MELTON. 
Why  did  you  go  ? 

LOBD  DAWLISH. 

I  always  was  a  fool.  They  said  that  it  would 
try  the  strength  of  her  feelings ;  that,  if  we  were 
both  of  the  same  mind  when  I  had  got  my  degree, 
the  thing  should  be. 

MBS.  MELTON. 
And  you  never  wrote  ? 

LOBD  DAWLISH. 
No. 


120  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

MES.  MELTON. 
Nor  did  he — never  one  line. 

LOED  DAWLISH. 
They  said  she  wished  me  not  to  write. 

MES.  MELTON. 

How  likely  !  These  men,  these  men  !  They 
never  know  what  letters  are  to  women.  What 
was  the  end  ? 

LOED  DAWLISH. 

The  usual  thing.  As  soon  as  my  degree  was 
all  right  I  made  for  Paris.  She  was  gone. 

MES.  MELTON. 
My  poor  friend  !    She  was  dead. 

LOED  DAWLISH. 
Married. 

MES.  MELTON. 
Married  !  how  could  she  be  so — 

LOED  DAWLISH. 

It  is  very  like  your  story,  ain't  it  ?  Only  in 
my  story  the  parties  were  not  American. 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES.  121 

MKS.  MELTON. 

American  !    What  do  you  mean  ?    I  wasn't  an 
American  till  I  married  one,  and  Tom — 

LOED  DAWLISH. 
Then  it  wasn't  Cousin  John  ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 

John  !    No,  no,  no  !    Lord  Dawlish  !    Lord 
Dawlish,  what  is  your  family  name  ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

My  family  name  ?    What  on  earth,  my  dear 
Mrs.  Melton — 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Quick,  quick  !    What  is  it  ? 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Why — er — why — Dashleigh,  of  course. 

MRS.  MELTON. 
And  you  are  Tom  Dashleigh  ? 

(As  she  looks  at  him  the  truth  dawns  on 
him.) 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
And  you  are  little  Kitty  Gray  ? 


122  LITTLE   COMEDIES. 

MBS.  MELTOX. 

Oh  !  my  bright  boy-lover,  you  are  lost  now  in- 
deed. 

LOKD  DAWLISH. 

I  think  I  have  got  a  chill. 

(  When  they  have  sat  a  little  while  in  silence 
she  jumps  up. ) 

MRS.  MELTON. 

No  more  sentiment,  no  more  folly !  Away 
with  sentiment  for  ever  !  The  boy  and  girl  lovers 
are  dead  long  ago  ;  and  we  old  folk  who  know  the 
world  may  strew  flowers  on  their  grave  and  be 
gone.  Look  up,  old  friend,  look  up  ! 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Yet  you  are  you,  and  I — I  suppose  that  I  am 
I. 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Young  fools  !  young  fools !  why  should  we 
pity  them,  we  wise  old  folk  who  know  the  world  ? 
Love  is  but — is  but — 

(And  she  dashes  into  music  at  the  piano  ; 
soon  her  hands  begin  to  fail,  and  she 
stoops  over  them  to  hide  her  eyes  ;  then 
she  jumps  up  in  tears*  and,  moving, 


PICKING  UP  THE  PIECES.  123 

knocks  over  the  little  jar  which  was 
Cousin  John's  gift.  He  would  pick  it 
up,  but  she  stops  him.) 

No,  no  :  let  it  lie  there. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
ShaVt  I  pick  up  the  pieces  ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 

Let  them  lie  there.  One  can  never  pick  up 
the  pieces. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 

Why  not  ?  I  don't  think  I  understand.  But 
I  can't  bear  to  see  you  cry.  I  thought  that  you 
could  not  cry;  that  you  were  too  clever  and 
strong-minded  to  cry.  Look  here  !  You  might 
have  made  something  of  me  once.  Is  it  too  late, 
Mrs.  Melton  ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 

The  jar  is  broken. 

LORD  DAWLISH. 
Is  it  too  late,  Kitty  ? 

MRS.  MELTON. 
Let  us  pick  up  the  pieces  together. 


HALF  WAY  TO  ARCADY. 


CHARACTERS. 


A  POET. 

AJST  AucADiAtf  GIEL. 


HALF  WAY  TO  AKCADY- 


A  Poet  dressed  in  evening  clothes,  but  somewhat 
dusty,  meets  an  Arcadian  girl  upon  the  road. 

HE. 
Here,  child  !     Is  this  the  way  to  Arcady  ? 

SHE. 
Yes,  noble  lord. 

HE. 

No  noble  lord  am  I. 
I  am  a  poet,  and  a  weary  one. 
Give  me  a  drink  of  water.     Child,  the  sun 
Will  fleck  that  dainty  skin  with  golden  kisses, 
Termed  freckles  by  our  milk-of-almond  misses. 
Turn  from  the  glaring  road  a  little  space  : 
The  spreading  beech  will  shade  the  dimpled  face, 
The  frolic  face,  a  light  in  shady  nook  : 
Nay,  do  not  fear  !    It  has  been  mine  to  look 


128  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

On  many  million  women  ;  therefore  I, 
Or  partly  therefore,  go  to  Arcady. 

SHE. 
But  there  are  women  in  Arcadia. 

HE. 

Are  there  ?    To  lead  the  yokel  hearts  astray — 
And  mine,  perhaps.     Ah  me  !  to  lie  along 
A  little  brook,  a  shepherd  from  a  song, 
A  little  babbling  brook,  and  plait  the  reeds, 
To  watch  the  dance  young  Amaryllis  leads, 
To  hum  a  catch  of  Pan  and  Nymph  and  Faun 
Laughing  and  leaping  on  the  upland  lawn, 
To  taste  pure  milk,  to  sleep  before  the  sun, 
Wake  with  the  sheep  and  with  the  sheep-dog  run, 
To  plunge  in  brawling  stream,  rest  on  the  sod 
As  free  and  naked  as  a  woodland  god — 
Ah,  to  be  there  !    How  far  is't  ? 

SHE. 

Let  me  see. 
Fair  sir,  since  sunrise  I've  walked  steadily — 

HE. 
You  come  from  Arcady  ? 

SHE. 

Of  course,  my  lord. 


HALF  WAY  TO  ARCADY.  129 

HE. 

Poor  child  !  and  you  haye  left  the  land  adored 
By  sheep  and  poets.     Say,  what  cruel  fate 
Has  sent  you  thence  to  wander  desolate 
In  this  cramped  world  of  license,  law,  and  lie  ? 

SHE. 

What  sent  me  ?    No  one  sent  me,  sir ;  but  I 
Was  grown  so  weary  of  the  silly  sheep 
And  silly  shepherds — oh,  they  peer  and  peep, 
And  sing  their  songs  all  to  one  lazy  tune 
Of  ribbons  and  of  roses,  and  warm  June, 
And  bells  are  always  tinkling,  breezes  sighing 
For  nothing,  and  the  leaves  so  long  a-dying — 
And  so,  sir,  I  was  tired  and  ran  away. 

HE. 
Where  do  you  go  ? 

SHE. 

To  Paris,  and  to-day, 
To  life,  to  life  !     Oh,  pardon  me,  fair  sir, 
I  talk  too  much. 

HE. 

I  like  those  lips  astir 
With  funny  little  fancies,  rosebud  lips, 
A  rose  of  dew  ;  and  now  a  sunbeam  slips 
Through  frolic  beech  leaves  for  a  kiss  I  ween ; 
Now  the  lips  part,  and  so  he  slips  between. 
9 


130  LITTLE   COMEDIES. 

You  sit  so  meek  and  pretty  in  the  shade, 

Were  I  not  tired  of  women,  I'm  afraid 

That  I  should  learn  of  sunbeams — nay,  don't  fear 

me, 

I've  seen  so  many  pretty  women  near  me. 
Fold  little  hands,  turn  great  grave  eyes  on  mine, 
And  I  will  teach  you  wisdom — how  they  shine, 
Those  merry  eyes  !  and  are  they  blue  or  brown  ? — 
'Tis  good  to  live  afar  from  noisy  town, 
To  live  a  simple  life  in  woodland  wild, 
Child  in  a  child's  world,  evermore  a  child  ; 
'Tis  good  to  cut  the  reed  and  sound  the  lay, 
To  lead  the  sheep,  and  watch  the  lambkins  play. 

SHE. 

Oh,  sir,  I've  watched  the  lambkins,  and  the  game 
Our  lambkins'  play  is  every  day  the  same  ; 
I'm  weary  of  their  dance. 

HE. 

The  lark  at  morn 

Leaps,  a  live  song,  above  the  yellow  corn  ; 
The  hours  go  by  to  music  ;  when  the  sun 
Slopes  to  the  west,  their  day-long  pleasures  done, 
The  simple  souls  betake  themselves  to  rest — 
Blest  race,  indeed,  if  they  but  knew  how  blest. 

SHE. 
Ah,  sir,  but  what  are  days  and  days  like  these 


HALF   WAY   TO   ARCADY.  131 

To  Paris  hours  and  gaslight  in  the  trees — 
A  glare,  a  maze,  a  murmur  ? 

HE. 

Listen,  child ! 

In  that  old  shell  of  Paris  was  I  styled 
Prince  of  misrule,  mirth,  madness,  mockery  ; 
No  lord  of  laughter  half  so  loud  as  I ; 
'No  cup  so  deep  as  mine  ;  no  heart  so  gay. 
Do  I  look  very  happy  ? 

SHE. 

Dare  I  say  ? 
Dare  I  speak  out  my  thought  ?    Fair  sir,  your 

face 

Has  in  it  something  that  did  never  grace 
Our  most  sweet-smiling  shepherd  :  I  can  guess 
That  it  is  what  we  long  for — weariness. 
There's  no  life  to  grow  weary  of  at  home. 

HE. 

Each  year  the  apple  orchards  break  to  foam 
Of  sun-tipped  blossom,  every  leaf  is  new 
On  every  tree,  and  all  the  sky  is  blue. 
Slowly  the  fresh  green  turns  to  deep  rich  shade, 
Slowly  gnarled  boughs  with  fruit  are  overweighed, 
Swell  the  fair  clusters  on  the  swinging  vine, 
The  year  grows  old  in  beauty.     Maiden  mine, 
No  charms  in  dusty  Paris  will  you  see 
One  half  so  sweet  as  your  simplicity. 


132  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

SHE. 

My  poor  simplicity  !     My  silliness  ! 

I  pray  you  do  not  mock  me,  sir  ;  distress 

Makes  my  voice  fail ;  indeed  I  don't  know  why, 

But  I  am  very  silly  :  if  I  cry 

You'll  laugh  again,  and  I  shall  cry  the  more. 

I  pray  you  do  not  mock  me. 

HE. 

Not  for  store 

Of  moments  dear  as  this,  of  sweet  replies, 
Of  April  dawning  in  those  lips  and  eyes  ! 
I  mock  you  not.     I  smile  because  'tis  sweet 
To  see  the  fretted  sunlight  at  our  feet. 
I  smile,  because  your  eyes  are  large  and  round ; 
I  smile  to  think  I  sit  on  grassy  mound 
And  prattle  with  a  girl ;  while  far  away 
The  huddled  crowd  of  Paris  wear  the  day 
Uneasy — flitting  on  from  sport  to  sport, 
Stabbing  with  jest,  and  wringing  quick  retort, 
Playing  and  playing,  lest  they  see  pass  by 
Young  Pleasure's  drear-eyed  mate,  Satiety. 
Fever  of  life,  0  absinthe,  cigarette  ! 
0  endless  theatre  where,  in  order  set, 
A  dull-eyed  people  all  the  long  night  through 
Sit  without  hope  of  seeing  something  new  ! 
0  dullness  smartly  uttered  !  paradox  ; 
0  hired  applause,  bought  flowers  from  the  box  ! 
0  acres  of  stretched  canvas,  where  with  skill 
The  painter  shows  new  forms  of  every  ill — 


HALF  WAY  TO  ARCADY.  133 

Historic  bloodshed,  new-distorted  dress, 

And  unimagined,  undraped  ugliness  ! 

0  pleasure  without  laughter,  strange  disease 

Of  mad  amusments  that  can  never  please  ! 

0  storm  and  stress  of  gold,  and  fuss,  and  feather  ! 

0  hollow  Paris,  you  and  I  together 

Have  run  the  weary  round  of  mirth  !    But  now  ! 

Now  the  quick  air  comes  wooing ;  on  the  bough 

A  squirrel  stops  to  listen  ;  one  small  bird 

Is  talkative,  and  naught  besides  is  heard, 

Save  murmur  of  wise  bees  amid  the  bloom  ; 

While  far  away  the  dim,  musk-scented  room 

Is  shut  from  sunlight,  and  the  ear  is  full 

Of  clatter,  and  the  restless  eye  grows  dull. 

0  pretty  girl !  of  laughter  all  compact, 
Of  little  fancy,  and  of  simple  fact, 
Maid  o'  the  milking,  queen  of  holiday, 
My  brier-rose  from  the  close  hedge  astray, 
My  heart  can  beat  again,  my  eyes  can  see  ; 

1  sought  Arcadia,  and  she  came  to  me. 
Here  will  we  rest. 

SHE. 
But,  sir,  is  Paris  near  ? 

HE. 

Take  me,  take  Paris  ;  I  have  Paris  here, 
Here  in  my  shriveled  heart,  my  weary  face, 
Here  in  my  tailor's  artificial  grace, 
In  scorn  of  joys  which  can  no  more  delay  me, 


134  LITTLE   COMEDIES. 

In  arrogance  which  bids  you  thus  obey  me. 
I  am  all  Paris,  spoiled  child  of  the  sun, 
And  I  am  at  your  feet,  my  little  one. 

SHE. 
Oh,  sir,  I  dare  not — sir,  I  can  not  speak  ! 

HE. 

Then  kiss  for  answer,  for  all  words  are  weak. 
Tip,  little  heart !  an  altar  quick  prepare 
Of  well-trimmed  turf  entwined  with  flowers  fair — 
The  buds  are  tame  in  Paris  :  here  will  I 
Dwell  with  my  love  half  way  to  Arcady  : 
Free  from  fierce  joys  and  more  abiding  pain, 
Clear  to  Lord  Hymen  raise  the  simple  marriage 
strain. 

SONG. 

JSTow  together  let  us  sing, 
Hymen,  Hymen  !    Hours  take  wing. 
Hours  quick-winged  with  our  delight 
Gone  like  smoke  that's  blue  and  bright 
In  the  happy  morning  air. 
Quick,  then,  with  flowers  fair  ! 
Flowers  to  the  altar  bring — 
Simple,  sweet  our  offering — 

And  both  together  sing 
0  Hymen,  be  propitious,  Hymen  ! 
0  Hymen,  Hymensee ! 


HALF   WAY  TO  ARCADY.  135 

(He  sings.) 

"Where  the  altar  turf  is  set, 
Smoke  of  perfumed  cigarette 
Melts  to  air,  and  flame  springs  high 
From  the  liquor  fierce  that  I 
Pour  from  this  my  silver  flask. 

(They  both  sing.) 

Thus  we  end  our  easy  task, 
And  the  happy  rite  is  done. 
Now  westward  slopes  the  sun 
All  the  sky,  as  he  goes  down, 
Takes  the  glow  of  saffron  gown, 

As  far  from  noisy  town 
We  raise  our  song  of  Hymen,  Hymen,   « 
0  Hymen,  Hymenaee  ! 

Thus  sang  the  two  together  sweet  and  low, 
And  days  went  by  in  order  sweet  and  slow  ; 
And  sweet  and  low  birds  chattered  'mid  the 

bloom ; 

And  sweet  and  slow  was  life  to  bride  and  groom — 
Lo  !    life  was  sweet  to  her  and  slow  to  him. 
The  whimsical  had  gratified  his  whim. 
Morn  brings  the  cows,  at  eve  they  homeward  go, 
But  no  morn  brings  the  far-off  Figaro  ; 
And  yet  'tis  good  to  sit  with  lazy  feet 
Dropped  in  the  stream,  and  think  of  dusty  street ; 
To  milk  the  evening  cow,  nor  care  for  haste, 
Eecalling  absinthe  and  less  lacteal  taste. 


136  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

0  gay  the  chatter  of  Arcadian  lass  ! 

0  gay  the  boulevard  all  aglare  with  gas  ! 

0  gaJ>  0  gay  ! — Once  at  that  calm  abode, 

Was  dropped  a  last  years'  paper  in  the  road  ; 

And  one  wild  day  a  stray  Arcadian  swain 

Grinned  through  the  leaves,  and  went  away  again. 


MABEL'S  HOLY  DAY. 


CHARACTERS. 


MABEL. 

ARTHUE. 

EALPH. 


MABEL'S  HOLT  DAT. 


In  a  Garden. 

ARTHUR. 

He  came,  saw,  and  was  conquered.    Lady  mine, 
You  can  not  choose  but  conquer ;  in  mere  sport 
You  triumph,  and  your  prize  a  human  heart. 
Where  others  strive,  you  take  your  ease  and  win — 
Win,  for  you  must ;  and  so  our  friend  was  won — 
Tamed  to  the  rose-chain  which  I've  worn  so  long. 
Was  never  victory  more  swift  and  sure  ! 

MABEL. 
Never. 

ARTHUR. 

A  week,  day,  hour — nay,  not  so  much  ; 
He  came,  he  saw,  was  conquered.     Victory  ! 
Glory  to  you  and  me  ! 

MABEL. 

Take  all  the  glory. 


140  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

AKTHUE. 

No — though  'twas  I  that  dragged  him  from 

his  books, 
'Twas  you  that  tamed  him.     Bent   o'er  dusty 

books 
There  was  my  friend,  my  Kalph,  my  dear  sworn 

brother, 

After  some  hundred  years  or  so  turned — poet, 
Spoiling  his  eyes- — the  boy  has  pleasant  eyes — 
Gnawing  a  weighty  tome,  grub,  scholar,  mole, 
Philosopher  of  dusk  and  dust — and  poet. 
I  found  him,  and  I  dragged  him  forth  to  light. 

MABEL. 
To  gaslight. 

AETHUE. 

Yes,  to  gaslight — best  of  lights. 
There  he  sat  blinking — 'twas  the  rarest  sport — 
The  innocent  had  never  seen  a  play, 
Never !    He  knew   his  Shakespeare,   loved  the 

book; 
But  not  the  boards  ;    they    said    the     modern 

stage 

Was  all  unworthy ;  so  he  only  came 
Because  I  prayed  him,  and  we  had  been  friends. 

MABEL. 
You  had  been  friends  ? 


MABEL'S  HOLY  DAY.  141 

ARTHUR. 

Friends  ?    Yes,  the  closest  friends. 
Oh,  but  to  see  the  change  !    There  he  sat  dazed, 
Puzzled,  disdainful ;  and  the  play  began. 
What's  this  ?    The  dazed  eyes  open,  round  and 

bright. 

What's  this  ?    Black-letter  ?  parchment  ?  manu- 
script ? 

A  student's  prize  ?    Newest  old-fashioned  verse, 
Or  old  verse  new  the  fashion  ?    Yes,  by  Love, 
By  the  great  little  master  !     Such  a  scroll 
As  not  all  libraries  on  earth  can  match, 
Parchment  of  living  words,  live  manuscript, 
Most  old,  most  new,  the  very  fount  of  song, 
The  world  writ  small  in  poetry — a  woman. 
He  did  not  know  the  kind. 

MABEL. 

And  does  he  know  it  ? 

ARTHUR. 
He  learns  his  lesson  daily  at  your  feet. 

MABEL. 
What  shall  you  do  ?   Where  do  you  go  to-day  ? 

ABTHUR. 
I  am  to  go  ?    I  weary  you  ? 


142  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

MABEL. 

Not  much. 

ARTHUR. 
I  can  not  comprehend  you  ? 

MABEL. 

I  hope  not. 

ARTHUR. 
I  can  but  leave  you. 

MABEL. 
You  are  very  kind. 

ARTHUR. 

Sphinx  though  you  be,  you  make  your  mean- 
ing clear. 

Adieu,  most  potent  lady  :  Queen,  farewell ; 
Give  my  respects  to  Master  Kalph  ;  farewell. 
Most  arbitrary  lady,  queen  of  hearts, 
Queen  of  the  stage — 

MABEL. 

Don't  speak  about  the  stage  : 
I  would  forget — this  is  my  holiday — 
Let  me  forget  the  actress — so  good-by  ! 

ARTHUR. 
Good-by.    The  gate  grates  on  the  gravel  walk  ; 


MABEL'S  HOLY  DAY.  143 

He  comes,  I  go — all  pass  ;  he  goes,  I  come  ; 
We  are  two  buckets  at  one  well.     Good-by. 
You'll  educate  my  friend. 

MABEL. 
Your  friend  !    And  mine  ? 

(ARTHUR  goes  away.  Presently  RALPH 
comes  through  the  shrubbery ;  as  MA- 
BEL gives  him  her  hand,  he  'begins  to 
speak  quickly.} 

RALPH. 

Oh,  what  a  day  !    Are  you  at  last  content  ? 
My  lady,  did  you  ever  see  such  a  day  ? 

MABEL. 
I  have  seen  many  days. 

RALPH. 

But  none  like  this. 

Why,  all  the  land  to-day  is  fairyland. 
I  came  by  the  upland  common  all  ablaze 
With  gorse  from  end  to  end,  and  met  the  breeze 
Full  in  the  face,  and  the  gray  morning  clouds 
Rolled  northward,  rent,  and  the  great  sun  shone 

through : 
But  that  was  nothing.    Where  the  road  dips  down 


144  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

Steep   from  rough  common  to  the  wide  grass- 
lands, 

I  found  a  world  of  blossom  ;  by  my  side 
The  May-trees  stood  so  thick  with  bloom,  me- 

thought 
No  space  was  there  for  song  o5  the  thrush,  that 

shook 

The  heart  o'  the  bush  with  rhapsodies  of  love  : 
But  that  was  nothing  ;  for  each  blade  of  grass 
Had  its  rain-jewel ;  short-lived  buttercups — 
Wealth  of  the  meadow,  fairy  merchants'  gold — 
Thronged  to  my  feet ;  then  field  and  hedgerow, 

elms 

All  newly  green,  and  golden  youth  of  oaks, 
And  great  horse-chestnut  with  imperial  plumes  ; 
Far  trees,  and  farther  in  the  farther  fields, 
Till  I  saw  dimly  the  fair  silver  coils, 
Where  the  full  Thames  lay  dreaming.     All  the 

land 

Was  one  broad  flood  of  blossom  ;  all  the  air 
Was  scent  of  blossom.     Down  the  road  I  came, 
Like  a  winged  creature  who  but  walks  for  whim, 
Half  stifled  by  the  songs  I  could  not  sing  : 
But  that  was  less  than  nothing  ;  for  I  came 
Under  your  garden  wall,  the  old  red  wall, 
Eough -stained  and  beautiful ;  and  there  I  stood. 
Delaying  my  delight,  and  looking  up, 
I  looked  close  in  and  through  laburnum  bloom, 
And  through  the  bloom  light  slanted  to  my  eyes, 
Sunshine  and  blossom  dazzling,  golden  shower, 


MABEL'S  HOLY  DAY.  145 

Quivering,    with   beauty  breathless :    but  that's 

nothing, 

For  when  I  pushed  your  gate,  my  dusty  feet 
Were  ankle-deep  in  daisies  ;  nothing  still, 
For  round  the  overflowing  lilac  bush  I  stole 
Breathless,  and  here  are  you. 

MABEL. 

Yes,  here  am  I ; — 
And  is  that  something  ? 

RALPH. 

Crown  o'  the  day  to  me, 
Music  that  makes  all  music's  meaning  clear, 
The  master-touch  interpreting  all  lights, 
Color  of  colors,  heart  o'  the  living  rose — 

MABEL. 
Enough  !  enough  !    Would  you,  too,  flatter  ? 

RALPH. 

No. 

I  pray  you  pardon  me.     I  am  mad  to-day  : 
Drunken  with  spring  :  this  morning  on  the  road 
I  could  not  sing,  for  all  the  world  was  poem, 
The  world  was  poet,  I  was  dumb  ;  but  now, 
Beholding  you,  I  speak  I  know  not  what, 
The  pent  stream  flows,  and  I  am  rhapsodist. 
I  pray  you  pardon  me. 
10 


146  LITTLE   COMEDIES. 

MABEL. 

You  need  no  pardon  : 
I  think  your  liking  for  these  things  is  real. 
You  really  like  the  country. 

KALPH. 

Keally  like  it ! 
To-day  I  love  it. 

MABEL. 

Arthur  loves  the  town. 

RALPH. 
Arthur?  Where  is  he?  Will  he  come  to-day  ? 

MABEL. 

Yes,  he  is  here  ;  he's  somewhere  in  the  house — 
Helping  my  maid  perhaps  to  plan  a  gown 
For  the  next  part  I  play — 

KALPH. 

Don't  talk  of  plays. 
Is  not  this  better  than  the  playhouse  ? 

MABEL. 

Yes: 

Oh,  so  much  better  !  This  is  holiday, 
My  holiday  amid  the  birds  and  bloom, 
My  holiday  with  flowers. 


MABEL'S  HOLY  DAY.  147 

KALPH. 

You  love  flowers. 

MABEL. 
I  hate  them. 

KALPH. 
What  ? 

MABEL. 

I  hate  them.     So  would  you 
If  they  were  hurled  at  you,  each  on  its  wire, 
Falling  with  a  thud  on  the  boards,  stirring  the 

dust, 

Formal  and  scentless,  dull,  inevitable 
As  gloves  or  fans — a  bouquet ! 

KALPH. 

Bloom  is  bloom. 
May  I  not  choose  some  flowers  for  my  lady  ? 

MABEL. 

No,  let  them  live  ;  I  am  so  modest,  I, 
One  daisy  shall  suffice  me  ;  thanks,  my  poet. 

KALPH. 

Your  poet !     If  I  dared — that  was  my  dream 
The  night  when  I  first  saw  you  ;  on  that  night 
I  was  so  full  of  poetry,  or  verse 
Which  would  be  poetry,  so  full  of  song, 


148  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

That,  as   I  walked  home  through  the  London 

crowd — 

Crowd  that  was  but  a  murmur  in  my  ears, 
A  shadow  world — I  heard  no  single  word 
Of  Arthur's  talk,  who  will  be  critical. 
The  moon  shone  fair  above  base  yellow  lights, 
And  my  lips  babbled  song  ;  the  moon  shone  fair 
And  touched  my  lips  with  madness,  till  I  thought 
That  I  was  poet,  fit  to  be  your  poet : 
I  broke  from  Arthur,  and  ran  home  ;  my  brain 
Was  burning  ;  "  It  is  the  god,"  I  cried, 
"  The  god  inspires  me  "  :  so  I  seized  my  pen 
And  wrote  : — and  by  the  morning  light  I  read 
Page  after  page  of  broken,  scribbled  verse, 
Poor  verse —    Yes,  you  may  laugh. 

MABEL. 

I  do  not  laugh. 
Show  me  this  verse. 

RALPH. 
Then  you  love  poetry  ? 

MABEL. 

I  hate  it.     Verses  have  been  flung  at  me 
To  fall  with  a  thud  like  flowers  :  poetry 
Is  but  cheap  flowers,  jewelry* that's  cheap, 

Cheap  as  my  life. 

KALPH. 

Why  will  you  talk  like  that  ? 


MABEL'S  HOLY  DAY.  149 

MABEL. 

I  talk  as  I  feel.     I  am  not  good,  you  know ; 
Not  good — and  somewhat  weary  of  my  life  ; 
At  least  I  can  be  honest — bad,  but  true — 
Show  me  your  verse. 

EALPH. 

My  lady,  speak  no  more 

These  cruel  words  against  yourself.     You  know 
I  can't  believe  them — even  if  I  would. 

MABEL. 
You  would  believe  them,  then  ? 

EALPH. 

I  wished  to  once  ; 
Once ;  long  ago. 

MABEL. 
We  have  been  friends  one  week. 

EALPH. 

I  was  a  fool,  a  prejudiced,  poor  fool, 
And  I  knew  nothing. 

MABEL. 
A  week  ago  !    Poor  boy  ! 


150  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

RALPH. 

I  am  a  boy  no  longer.     As  a  boy 
I    lived  with  boys,  and   loved  my  friends,  my 

dreams, 

And  did  not  hate  my  books  ;  I  worked  and  played, 
Glad  both  of  work  and  play.     Then  I  saw  you  : 
Now  I  see  naught  but  you. 

MABEL. 

Naught  but  each  cloud, 
Each  summer  cloud,  each  tree,  each  blade  of  grass. 

EALPH. 

I  saw  all  these  because  I  came  to  you, 
Because  I  came  to  you,  all  beautiful ; 
They  had  but  mocked  me  else. 

MABEL. 

As  they  mock  me. 

Would  I  could  see  their  beauty  !  for  this  land, 
Your  dainty  land  of  spring,  is  laid  in  flats  ; 
The  carpenters  are  barely  out  of  sight ; 
Smell  o'  the  lamp,  glare  o'  the  gas  ;  and  soon, 
Not  without  jolt  and  creak,  the  play's  next  scene 
Will  be  presented.     I  foresee  the  scene. 

EALPH. 

What  is  that  scene  ? 


MABEL'S  HOLY   DAY.  151 

MABEL. 


A  dainty  scene  enough  ; 
A  room,  a  bijou,  boudoir,  lady's  bower ; 
A  wall  of  satin,  save  where  Cupids  leer 
From  panels  ;  two  long  windows  draped  in  lace 
Through  which    the   rose-colored,  pale  sunlight 

faints 

To  die  on  flowered  carpet ;  all  things  there 
Which  women  love,  for  which —    Let's  hear  your 

verse. 

BALPH. 

There  are  tears  in  your  eyes. 

MABEL. 

No,  no.     My  eyes  are  dazed 
By  too  much  lime-light.     Let  me  hear  your  verse. 

KALPH. 

There  are  tears  in  your  eyes  :  why  do  you  cry  ? 
Poor  child  ! 

MABEL. 

Child  !   I  am  laughing  now  :  are  you  content  ? 
Child  !     I  suppose  that  I  was  once  a  child, 
Knowing  no  harm  i'  the  world,  a  little  child, 
I  must  have  been — but  it  was  long  ago. 

KALPH. 
Tell  me  about  yourself. 


152  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

MABEL. 

With  pleasure,  sir ; 
The  subject  interests  me  :  I  was  born 
Some  five-and-twenty  years  ago,  and  more. 
I  think  that  I  was  born  before  the  Flood  : 
I  lived  in  a  farm  : — Now  mark  the  pretty  scene  ! 
To  Eight  a  cottage  porch  o'ergrown  with  roses  ; 
Eight  Center  pump  or  pigeon-house  on  pole, 
Then  practicable  gate  o'  the  old  pasture, 
And  Left  a  bit  of  barn-door.     On  this  scene 
Enter  a  young  girl  singing  ;  that  was  I. 
"Dost  like  the  picture  ?"  as  they  ask  i'  the  play. 
But  come,  recite  !     You  did  not  tear  them  all, 
Not  all  your  pretty  verses  ? 

EALPH. 

All,  I  think  : 

There's  something  I  remember — but  I  will  not, 
You  are  so  strange  to-day. 

MABEL. 

You  like  me  not  : 

You  like  me  not  to-day  ;  and  that  is  well ; 
You  must  not  like  me. 


It  is  too  late. 


EALPH. 

Stop ;  don't  tell  me  that ; 


MABEL'S    HOLY  DAY.  153 

MABEL. 
Poor  boy ! 

EALPH. 

Not  poor,  but  rich ; 

Rich  with  a  kingdom  that  I  would  not  yield 
To  be  an  emperor. 

MABEL. 

And  that's  not  much. 
Don't  talk  like  a  young  lover  on  the  stage  ! 
This  is  my  garden,  this  my  holiday  ; 
Keep  the  stage  lover  from  me  :    be  my  Siebel ; 
Cull  me  some  flowers. 

RALPH. 

Let  the  flowers  live ; 
Is  not  the  whole  world  nosegay  for  my  lady  ? 

MABEL. 
Pestilent  vapors. 

RALPH. 
No. 

MABEL. 

Disperse  them,  then. 

Come,  let  me  have  my  hour ;  come,  if  you  love 
me : 


154  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

Sit  by  my  feet  and  speak  your  verse  to  me  ; 
Here   at  my  feet !     That's  right ;   and  now  the 
verses  ! 

KALPH. 

They  are  so  weak. 

MABEL. 

The  better  !    Who  am  I, 

That  I  should  make  men  poets  ?    Quires  of  verse 
Have  been  discharged  at  me  ;  they  were  all  weak. 

Begin ! 

EALPH. 
I  can  not. 

MABEL. 
If  you  love  me,  Ralph. 

RALPH. 
I  must.     I  can  remember  but  few  lines. 

Night's  flower,  child  of  night  and  perfumed  air — 
Star  o'  the  night,  lone  star  as  pure  as  pale- 
Night's  bird  whose  mere  discourse  is  music  rare- 
Bird,  star  and  flower,  lovelorn  nightingale- 
Lightning  of  wrath,  0  passion  fierce  and  frail  !— 
Heart  o'  the  rose,  0  heart  of  love's  own  heart ! — 
Air,  fire,  life,  death — and  woman  too  thou  art. 

I  have  obeyed  you,  lady. 


MABEL'S  HOLY  DAY.  155 

MABEL. 

Thanks,  my  poet. 
And  when  I  played,  you  saw  all  this  in  me  ? 

KALPH. 
You  were  so  much  to  me. 

MABEL. 

And  it  was  real  ? 
Was  this  play  real  to  you  ?    Did  you  believe  ? 

KALPH. 

The  woman  that  you  played  was  real  to  me, 
Now  shadow  of  a  shade,  since  you  are  real, 
Since  I  am  by  your  feet,  and  this  is  you. 

MABEL. 

Shadow  of  a  shade,  ay,  shadow  of  a  shade  is 

play 
And  woman  too. 

KALPH. 

Then  naught  be  real  to  me 
But  this  dear  shade. 

MABEL. 
No  ;  have  no  faith  in  me. 


156  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

EALPH. 
I  have  no  choice. 

MABEL. 
Poor  boy ! 

EALPH. 

Nay,  not  so  poor  ! 

Now,  when  I  felt  your  hand  light  on  my  hair, 
A  blessing  fell  on  me  :  Oh,  to  sit  here 
For  ever,  that  this  moment  might  be  time, 
Dream  with  no  waking  after  !   dreamful  sleep, 
Or  death  of  all  thought  save  that  you  are  near. 

MABEL. 

Yes,  dream  ;  you  are  safe  in  dreams — but  never 
wake. 

EALPH. 

Dream,  and  I  dream  this  day  will  ne'er  be 
done. 

MABEL. 
The  butterfly  outlives  it,  but  not  love. 

EALPH. 

One  night  falls  dark,  dark  night  on  love  and 
life. 


MABEL'S  HOLY  DAY.  157 

MABEL. 

Oh,  this  is  poetry,  folly,  player's  rant ; 
You  dream  and  wake  to-morrow.     A  week  ago 
We  two  were  strangers ;  let  some  few  days  pass 
And  we  are  strangers. 

RALPH. 

But  a  week  ago 
I  had  not  lived. 

MABEL. 

Stage  fever  is  not  life  ; 
Stage  fever's  quick. 

RALPH. 
Yes,  quick  to  cure  or  kill. 

MABEL. 
You  must  not  talk  like  that. 

RALPH. 

What  need  to  talk  ! 

Let  the  air  talk  in  the  lilac  ;  you  and  I, 
Sit  silent  breathing  spring-time — you  and  I. 

MABEL. 
And  are  you  happy  ? 


158  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

EALPH. 

I  am  rich  with  joy, 
And  yet  not  wholly  happy. 

MABEL. 

Lover's  mood ! 

0  lover's  luxury  of  sighs  long-drawn  ! 
Immortal — dead  at  sundown  !    Is  't  not  sweet 
To  taste  the  day's  delight,  and  sorrow  too, 
Sorrow  in  the  thought  that  you  and  I  must  part  ? 

RALPH. 
Why  must  we  part  ? 

MABEL. 

Why  !    Wake  and  see  the  world, 
The  world  on  which  I  make  my  player's  round, 
A  star — how  runs  it  ? — star  that's  pale  and  pure, 
Star  o'  the  troupe,  a  comet  with  faint  tail, 
With  somewhat  musty  followers — not  with  you. 
Child,  would  you  journey  round  this  dusty  world 
Tied  to  my  apron-string  ? 

EALPH. 

Yes,  that  would  I. 

MABEL. 

No,  be  a  man  and  burst  these  idle  bonds, 
These  apron-strings. 


MABEL'S   HOLY   DAY.  159 

RALPH. 

Who  tied  me  here  but  you  ? 
You  bound  me,  and  I  will  not  loose  the  bonds. 
You  bid  me  be  a  man  ;  be  woman  you, 
To  pity  me  :  "I  would  I  were  thy  bird." 

MABEL. 
Don't  quote  from  plays. 

KALPH. 

'Tis  real  enough  to  me. 

MABEL. 

I've  seen  so  many  love-sick  Montagues  ; 
I've  stepped  from  windows  with  no  house  behind, 
Leaned  from  sham  balconies  to  lisp  sham  love — 
The  powder's  thick  on  the  child  Juliet's  cheek  ; 
She's  dead  i'  the  first  scene,  dead,  stark,  analyzed, 
Dissected — Now  I  shock  you  !    You  see  now 
How  dull  to  feel  I  am,  how  cold,  how  bad, 
How  tired  of  life  !    A  live,  warm-blooded  man 
Had  better  crash  his  heart  against  a  stone 
Than  look  for  love  in  me.     Be  warned  in  time. 
All  is  cold  here  at  my  heart,  all  is  cold  here. 
See  me,  not  Juliet  in  me  :  push  her  back, 
This  Juliet  of  your  fancy,  to  the  tomb  ; 
To  the  tomb  with  her,  if  you  love  me,  Ralph. 

RALPH. 
If  I  love  ! 


160  LITTLE   COMEDIES. 

MABEL. 

Child,  poor  child,  you  must  not  love, 
You  shall  not  love  me. 

RALPH. 

I  am  not  a  child — 
I  love  you,  Mabel. 

MABEL. 

Hush  !  you  shall  not  love  me. 
You  will  not :  do  you  mark  me  ?    Arthur  !  here  ! 
Where  is  my  loving  playmate  ?    Ho,  boy,  ho  ! 
Come  to  me,  Arthur. 

ARTHUR  (coming  to  them). 

I  salute  you  both. 

Good  morning,  Ealph,  a  happy  day  to  you  ! 
Is  it  not  happy,  man  ? 

MABEL. 

Oh,  much  too  happy  ! 
I  triumph,  Arthur ! 

ARTHUR. 

May  I  kiss  your  hand  ? 

MABEL. 
My  lips  if  you  will ;  I  am  right  royal  to-day. 


MABEL'S  HOLY  DAY.  161 

ARTHUR  (to  7ier). 
What  are  you  saying  ?    You  will  spoil  it  all. 

MABEL. 

Look  how  the  boy  stares,  boy  who  dares  not 

think 

Of  woman's  lip,  who  dares  not  lift  his  eye 
When  trembling  sore  he  takes  her  finger-tips — 
Boy  !  child  !  a  woman's  wine  is  made  of  grapes ; 
Virtue  !  a  fig's  end  ! — oh,  how  runs  the  stuff  ? — 
lago  knew  us. 

ARTHUR. 

Good  !    Brava  !  brava  ! 
Was  ever  such  an  actress  !    Ralph,  applaud  ! 
I'll  swear  he  half  believes  her.     What  an  actress  ! 

EALPH  (to  her). 
And  is  this  acting  ? 

MABEL. 

No,  I  tell  you,  no. 

(Be  silent,  Arthur,,  do  not  cross  my  whim.) 
I  have  been  acting,  acting  for  a  week, 
A  long,  dull  week,  seven  days  of  sentiment — 
Heaven  bless  us  all ! — of  sentiment  and  song, 
"  Sighing  like  furnace,"  of  young  grass  and  lambs, 
Young  grass,  young  lambs,  young  love,  love  of  a 
boy. 

11 


162  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

But  now  good-by  ingenuous  charm  of  youth, 

Good-by  to  love,  good-by  to  love  and  lamb, 

And  back  to  town  !    I  am  free,  I  am  true,  myself, 

I  am  myself  again.     Good-by,  dear  boy ; 

We  meet  in  town  ?    No.     Then  good-by  again. 

RALPH. 
Good-by. 

(Ralph  goes  away.  Mabel  will  not  look  at 
him.  When  he  is  out  of  sight,  and 
Mabel  still  stands  and  looks  the  other 
way,  Arthur  comes  to  her  doubtfully.} 

ARTHUR. 
What  means  this,  Mabel  ?    Won't  you  speak  ? 

MABEL. 
Go. 

ARTHUR. 

What  have  /  done  ?     I've  done  nothing 
wrong. 

MABEL. 

Nothing  but  torture  me  !     Go  ! 

ARTHUR. 

Very  well ! 
I  never  yet  have  crossed  a  lady's  whim. 

(Arthur  goes  away.) 
MABEL. 
I  am  alone  ;  this  is  my  holiday. 


HEATHER. 


CHARACTERS. 


JULIUS. 
ELFKIDA. 


HEATHER. 


JULIUS. 

Hi,  good  dog  !  Here  !  Come  out  of  the  sun, 
you  four-legged  idiot !  Many  years  in  my  com- 
pany, and  still  so  little  wisdom.  Eh  ?  What  ? 
"Dogs  and  Englishmen  walk  in  the  sun."  Very 
true,  but  I  am  an  Englishman  who  likes  shade  ; 
you  are  my  dog,  and  should  like  what  I  like.  Sit 
here  under  my  left  arm.  That  is  better.  You 
are  much  to  be  pitied  in  that  you  can  not  lean 
your  back  against  the  smooth  trunk  of  a  pine,  and 
stretch  out  your  legs  before  you.  I  too  can  lie  on 
my  stomach,  if  it  please  me,  but  you  can  not,  for 
all  your  aspirations,  lean  your  back  against  a  tree 
in  comfort.  Nor,  though  you  cock  your  ear  like 
a  critic,  do  you  care  a  jot  for  that  faint  sighing 
overhead,  which  even  on  this  stillest  of  summer 
days  is  sweet  to  hear.  Nor  do  those  bright  in- 
telligent eyes  perceive  the  beauty  of  heather.  See 
how  my  right  arm,  half  sunken,  lies  along  this 


166  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

tuft,  which  is  springy  as  the  very  finest  smoking- 
room  sofa,  and  beautiful — yes,  by  the  immortali- 
ty of  humbug  !  more  beautiful  than  the  last  crea- 
tion of  the  last  aesthetic  upholsterer  !  But  heather 
is  healthy,  irrepressible,  and  vulgar ;  it  rebounds, 
it  asserts  itself ;  it  is  vulgar,  vivid,  and  healthy 
as  those  reapers  out  beyond  the  wood,  where  the 
sun  smites  the  wide  field  golden.  Heather  is  vul- 
gar, and  probably  its  color  is  voyant  to  the  well- 
ordered  eye.  In  truth,  this  England  has  become 
a  strange  place,  Aurelian,  while  you  and  I  have 
been  knocking  about  the  world.  Here  lie  you  in 
the  shade  of  the  old  pine-wood,  and  wag  your  tail 
— a  smiling  mongrel  and  an  incurable  Philistine. 
Here  lie  I  happy  in  the  heather,  and  wag  my  jaw 
— a  Philistine — but  perchance  to  be  cured  and  be- 
come oblivious  of  Ascalon.  And  the  strange 
thing  is  that  you  and  I  were  wont  to  value  our- 
selves on  our  taste.  In  this  very  spot  have  we 
reposed  side  by  side,  as  now,  and  been  well  pleased 
with  ourselves.  Were  I  as  once  I  was,  I  should 
hug  myself  with  joy  of  that  broad  corn-land,  all 
Danae  to  the  sun,  of  the  blue  through  the  dark 
fir-tops ;  I  should  turn  an  idle  eye  to  the  hard 
whiteness  of  the  road  away  on  the  right,  where 
you  delayed  in  the  glare  and  ran  the  risk  of  mad- 
ness, and  then  bless  myself  that  I  could  feel  the 
entire  charm  of  a  bed  of  heather  spread  in  the 
shade  for  me.  But  now  I  am  beset  by  doubts. 
What  if  heather  be  vulgar  ?  It  pushes,  it  re- 


HEATHER.  167 

bounds,  it  asserts  itself ;  it  is  decked  with  purple 
bells.  It  is  not  a  sun-flower ;  it  does  not  even 
wish  to  be  a  sun-flower ;  it  is  not  wasted  by  one 
passionate,  sweet  desire  to  become  a  sun-flower ;  it 
seems  to  be  content  with  itself  —  content  as  a 
thriving  grocer.  Has  Elfrida  become  a  sun- 
flower ?  She  used  to  be  great  fun.  She  was  once 
a  little  girl,  but  now  a  young  lady.  She  would  not 
agree  with  the  heather.  Under  the  dark  pine- 
trees  her  gown  of  olive  hue  would  be  but  a  bit  of 
the  shadow,  and  she  unseen  but  for  the  sunshine 
of  her  hair.  0  sunny  hair  !  0  wheat,  out  in  the 
happy  field,  where  the  reaper  is  singing,  or  ought 
to  be  !  Oh  ! — but  rhapsody  is  out  of  date.  Elfrida 
has  changed,  0  my  dog,  since  the  days  when  she 
was  Elf,  and  rode  the  old  horse  bare-back,  and 
played  cricket  with  the  boys,  princess  and  witch 
of  the  schoolroom,  elf  of  this  wood,  and  utter 
fairy  !  She  is  a  beauty  now,  and  her  gowns  are 
as  the  dead  leaves  of  the  forest  for  number  and 
color,  and  her  head  is  a  little  bowed  on  one  side 
as  the  head  of  the  lily,  and  her  face  is  a  comely 
mystery.  These  are  brave  words,  Aurelian  !  I 
improve  apace.  Yet  there  is  none  like  her. 
What  does  she  think  of  me  ?  Were  I  a  lover, 
thus  idle  in  the  sweet  shade,  I  would  solve  the 
question  by  some  pretty  test,  as  thus  :  She  loves 
me — she  loves  me  not ;  she  loves — no  ;  she — but 
I  perceive  that  you  do  not  like  me  to  pluck  hairs 
from  your  tail ;  and  yet  I  have  called  you  friend 


168  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

these  many  years.  Let  the  question  remain  un- 
answered. Or  let  us  be  wise,  and  know  she  loves 
us  not. 

u  Sing  little  bird  in  the  tree, 

But  not  because  my  love  loves  me, 

For  she  does  no  such  thing; 

Therefore,  for  your  good  pleasure  only  sing." 

Thank  you.  And  now  for  luncheon.  Now  is  the 
hour  when,  in  eating-houses  all  the  world  over, 
there  is  clink  of  knives  and  small  change,  clatter 
of  plates,  and  hum  of  talking  and  eating.  Here 
there  is  no  bustling  waiter  nor  scent  of  roast  joint, 
but  only  a  crust  of  bread,  an  apple,  and  pure  air. 
Were  this  my  last  crust  you  should  share  it.  It 
is  well,  however,  that  you  have  no  taste  for  apples. 
He  would  have  tempted  you  with  tea  and  a  chop. 
Steady  !  Don't  bolt  your  bread,  and  I  will  find 
a  biscuit  in  my  pocket.  Be  dignified,  as  becomes 
a  traveler,  and  one  who  has  had  losses.  Have  I 
had  my  losses  ?  Have  I  lost  something  rare  ?  I 
can  not  say.  But  if  I  had  not  so  longed  to  see  the 
world,  I  might  have  gained  something,  when  an 
Elf  was  tenant  of  this  old  wood.  What  ?  Enough? 
Why  these  extravagant  demonstrations,  this  wag- 
ging of  the  tail,  and,  indeed,  of  the  entire  body  ? 
What  do  you  see  ?  Who  is  it  ?  Elfrida  !  I  did 
not  think  you  would  come  out  to-day. 

ELFRIDA. 
Is  it  not  beautiful  ? 


HEATHER.  169 

JULIUS. 

Yes— 

"  The  valleys  stand  so  thick  with  corn  that  they  do  laugh 
and  sing." 

ELFRIDA. 

"  Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean — 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair, 
Rise  in  the  heart  and  gather  to  the  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  autumn  fields." 

JULIUS. 

It  is  scarce  autumn  yet.  Let  it  be  summer 
still ;  and  let  us  laugh  with  the  valleys.  Consider 
that  broad  beauty  in  the  sun. 

ELFRIDA. 
Is  it  not  exquisite,  pathetic  ? 

JULIUS. 
Is  it?    You  like  it? 

ELFRIDA. 

Oh,  yes ! 

JULIUS. 

It's  not  too  bright,  too  garish  ? 

ELFRIDA. 

Perhaps  it  is.  I  did  not  think  that  you  would 
feel  that. 


170  LITTLE   COMEDIES. 

JULIUS. 

Oh,  not  too  bright  for  me  !  I  like  to  sit  in 
shadow  and  stare  into  the  sun.  But  for  you  ?  I 
thought  that  you  would  resent  the  shining  of  the 
blue,  the  gleaming  of  the  yellow  corn,  the  cheer- 
fulness of  all  things. 

ELFRIDA. 
Are  you  laughing  at  me  ?    I  never  know. 

JULIUS. 

I  laugh  because  you  are  here.  It  brings  back 
other  days.  Oh,  don't  sigh  !  They  were  jolly,  but 
none  so  jolly  as  this.  Jolly  !  Let  me  say  jocund. 

ELFEIDA. 

I  think  it  is  all  too  bright.  It  hurts  the  eyes 
a  little. 

JULIUS. 
Are  they  weak,  those  eyes  ? 

ELFRIDA. 
I  think  not. 

JULIUS. 
I  think  not. 

ELFKIDA. 
But  I  like  soft  colors  best  ;  don't  you  ? 


HEATHER.  171 

JULIUS. 

Tender  gray  skies,  tender  green  grass,  and 
tone. 

ELFRIDA. 

Oh,  yes  !  That  is  good.  That  is  like  Lacave. 
It  is  only  by  studying  the  French  painters  that 
one  can  learn  to  love  our  gray-green  English  land- 
scapes, to  comprehend  their  infinite  tenderness. 

JULIUS. 

It  is  hard,  even  for  a  French  painter,  to  com- 
prehend the  infinite. 

ELFRIDA. 

Is  it  so  hard  ?  I  wish  you  could  see  his  pic- 
tures. I  know  so  little,  and  I  can't  explain  my- 
self ;  but  he  is  so  clever,  and  it  is  all  so  true — I 
should  like  you  to  know  him,  Julius. 

JULIUS. 

Let  it  be  so.  I  don't  hate  a  Frenchman.  What 
does  he  paint  ? 

ELFEIDA. 

Oh,  wonderful  still  things,  all  rest  and  brood- 
ing calm  ;  a  level,  gray-green  sea  ;  long,  level,  level 
sands  all  gray  with  wan  sea  water  ;  and  far-off 
creeping  mist  and  low  gray  sky. 


172  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

JULIUS. 
Always  that  ? 

ELFKIDA. 

Yes,  I  think  so ;  but  with  infinite  variety  in 
the  monotone. 

JULIUS. 

He  must  have  a  merry  heart  to  keep  him  warm, 
or  an  endless  cold  in  the  head.  Is  he  jocund, 
this  painter  ? 

ELFKIDA. 

Oh,  Julius  !     He  is  always  very  still. 

JULIUS. 

And  gray  ?  But  I  will  learn  to  like  the  right 
things.  Am  I  too  old  to  learn  ?  Will  you  teach 
me? 

ELFKIDA. 

I  can't  teach  anything,  as  you  know,  Julius. 
You  must  ask  M.  Lacaye. 

JULIUS. 

"  The  owl  in  the  sunlight  sat  and  said, 
4 1  hate  your  vulgar  blue  and  red ; 
Oh,  better  the  gray  of  a  wan  twilight, 
Or  a  black  nocturne  at  the  dead  of  night ! ' 

0  M.  Hibou, 

A  word  with  you ! — 
Pray,  how  can  one  gain  so  keen  a  sight?" 


HEATHER.  173 

But  in  sober  prose,  sweet  coz,  I  will  to  school 
again,  and  learn  to  love  gray  weather — a  taste 
much  to  be  desired  in  this  old  land  of  ours.  Only 
let  this  day  be  holiday.  Let  us  be  happy  to-day 
— happy  as  sunburned  reapers  in  the  field.  I  give 
the  day  to  vulgar  joy,  for  I  am  at  home  again,  and 
the  hour  is  fair.  Joy  is  vulgar,  is  it  not  ? 

ELFRIDA. 
Oh,  no  !    Joy  is  good. 

JULIUS. 
Good,  and  sweet,  and  sad,  and  so  evil. 

ELFRIDA. 

You  are  mocking  me  again,  I  think.  But 
surely  it  is  true  that  joy  and  sorrow  are  very  near 
together,  are  one  in  some  sort ;  are  for  us  so 
blended  and  intermingled  that  we  can  no  more 
sever  one  from  another  than  the  tuberose  from  its 
scent. 

JULIUS. 

I  knew  it.  Evil  is  sad,  and  sad  is  sweet,  and 
sweet  is  good.  But  no  more  gladness,  which  is 
scarce  better  than  jollity.  We  must  be  sweetly, 
sadly,  seriously  joyous.  It  shall  be  so  to-morrow. 
To-morrow  I  will  begin  to  learn.  To-morrow  to 
school ;  to-morrow,  to-morrow,  to-morrow.  But 


174  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

to-day  !  To-day  I  am  so  deeply,  unutterably  glad 
of  the  goodly  earth,  where  angels  might  gather  in 
the  corn.  Think  of  me  as  one  who  will  do  bet- 
ter, as  one  who  has  kept  bad  company  for  years  : 
do  you  wag  your  tail  at  me,  sir  ?  I  said  bad  com- 
pany, Aurelian  ;  nay,  pat  him  not,  Elfrida,  for  he 
is  a  Philistine,  and  must  be  chastened.  He  is 
happy  with  a  bone,  sorry  with  a  beating.  To- 
morrow will  I  give  him  a  bone  and  a  beating  at 
the  same  time,  thus  complicate  his  emotions,  thus 
begin  his  education.  He,  too,  shall  learn  how 
subtly  pleasure  and  pain  are  interwoven.  Down, 
you  fantastic  pup !  Elfrida,  this  grove  intoxi- 
cates me.  It  is  not  long  since  an  Elf  ran  wild 
here,  leaping  in  the  heather,  laughing  to  the  air, 
darting  through  the  shadows  like  a  truant  sun- 
beam fresh  from  heaven. 

ELFRIDA. 
Do  you  remember  those  old  days  ? 

JULIUS. 

That  is  better.     There  is  the  old  color  in  your 
cheeks.     Do  you  ever  run  now  ? 

ELFRIDA. 

Sometimes,  but  not  now.    M.  Lacave  is  paint- 
ing me,  and  he  likes  me  to  be  pale. 


HEATHER.  175 

JULIUS. 

Would  he  were  pale,  very  pale  !  You  are  too 
rare  to  fade,  too — 

ELFRIDA. 
Julius,  what  is  the  matter  with  the  dog  ? 

JULIUS. 

He  has  found  a  mare's  nest.  I  know  that  air 
of  preternatural  sagacity.  Lead  on,  Aurelian ! 
we  follow  thee.  Hush  !  Look  here  !  Scarce  ten 
yards  from  where  we  sat !  Is  not  this  a  day  of 
enchantment  ? 

ELFKIDA. 

Hush  !    Poor  child,  how  sound  he  sleeps. 

JULIUS. 

A  little  tramp  of  Italy,  and  a  jolly  little  fel- 
low. 

ELFRIDA. 

He  has  crept  in  here  from  off  the  hard  road  of 
life.  Don't  wake  him,  Julius. 

JULIUS. 

Not  I.  Do  you  think  I  would  mar  such  slum- 
ber ?  Look  how  evenly  the  breath  stirs  the  torn 
shirt  on  his  breast ;  and  how  easily  he  lies,  his 
knees  a  little  bent,  as  if  he  would  curl  himself 


176  LITTLE  COMEDIES. 

like  some  soft-coated  animal,  warm  in  the  heather. 
Did  an  eagle  let  him  fall  ? 

ELFEIDA. 

How  beautiful  is  the  soft,  olive  face  lying  on 
the  outstretched  arm !  and  look  at  the  lashes — 
how  long  they  are  on  the  cheek  !  Poor  child  ! 
The  path  before  him  must  be  rough  for  those  lit- 
tle feet.  Poor  child,  poor  child  ! 

JULIUS. 

Not  so  poor,  neither.  Is  sleep  like  that  worth 
nothing  ?  See  how  he  smiles,  and  the  humorous 
wrinkle  between  the  eyebrows,  and  the  warm  blood 
in  the  cheek.  It  it  a  child's  cheek,  round  and 
soft ;  but  the  jaw  is  firm  enough.  Such  a  one 
moves  well  and  cheerily  among  the  chances  of  life. 
No  fear  for  him.  He  was  born  in  a  happy  hour. 

ELFKIDA. 

How  beautiful  he  is,  astray  from  a  poet's  Italy, 
fragrant  of  the  wine-press,  and  eloquent  of  most 
delicate  music  ! 

JULIUS. 

Yet  should  he  wake,  that  rustic  bag-pipe  would 
be  doubtless  discordant.  Sleep,  little  one,  in  good 
sweet  Northern  heather  ;  sleep,  little  Ampelus, 
out  of  the  swinging  vines  !  Sleep,  vagrant  poem  ! 


HEATHER.  177 

— not  Ampelus  ;  for  now  I  bethink  me,  Elfrida, 
this  is  the  very  god  of  love. 

ELFRIDA. 
Poor  little  child  of  the  South. 

JULIUS. 

Bad  grandchild  of  the  Southern  sea — lovely 
and  capricious  grandam,  with  malice  in  her  smiles. 
Wake  him  not  or  tremble.  Elves  of  the  wood 
a-many  have  confessed  his  power.  See  how  the 
dog  trembles.  Away ! 

ELFRIDA. 
Can  we  do  nothing  for  him,  Julius  ? 

JULIUS. 

Nothing.  But  stay.  There  is  a  book  of  an- 
tique lore  that  says  to  those  who  chance  to  find 
Eros  asleep,  that,  be  they  many  or  few,  one  or 
two,  each  must  sing  the  god  a  song,  and  cross  his 
palm  with  silver.  I  therefore  in  this  upturned 
little  brown  hand  place  this  half-crown.  Do  you 
take  this,  its  fellow,  and  do  likewise. 

ELFRIDA. 

I  shall  never  pay  you,  Julius  ? 
12 


178  LITTLE   COMEDIES. 

JULIUS. 

I  am  paid  with  hope.  So  half  the  charm  is 
done.  Now,  sit  you  here  upon  this  tiny  knoll. 
I  will  lie  here  on  the  other  side.  So  our  theme 
is  between  us.  Do  you  begin  the  song. 

ELFRIDA  (sings.) 

Love  lies  asleep 

Deep  in  the  pleasant  heather  ; 
Wake  him  not  lest  ye  weep 

Through  the  long  winter  weather  ; 
And  sorrow  bud  again  in  spring, 
With  apple-blossoming, 
And  bloom  in  the  garden  close, 
With  blooming  of  the  rose, 
And  ye,  ere  ye  be  old, 
Die  with  the  brief  pale  gold, 
And  when  the  leaves  are  shed, 
Ye  too  lie  dead. 

JULIUS. 

No  fear  of  waking  this  vagrant  Love.     How 
fast  he  sleeps  ! 

ELFRIDA. 
What  utter  weariness  ! 

JULIUS. 
What  splendid  health ! 


HEATHER.       •  179 

(Sings.) 

Oh,  merry  the  day  in  the  whispering  wood, 

Where  the  boy  Love  lies  sleeping ; 
And  clad  in  artistic  ladyhood 
An  Elf  her  watch  is  keeping  ! 
Oh,  she  was  a  queen  of  the  elfin  race, 

And  flower  of  fairy  land  ! 
The  squirrel  stood  to  look  in  her  face, 

And  the  wild  dove  came  to  her  hand  ; 
But  her  fairies  have  given  a  gift  more  fair 
Than  any  that  elves  or  ladies  wear, 
Unbought  at  any  mart — 
A  woman's  heart. 
Boys  and  maidens  passing  by, 
Be  ye  wise,  and  let  Love  lie  ! 
There's  never  a  word  than  this  more  wise 
In  all  the  old  philosophies. 

Hush  your  song  this  summer  day, 
Lest  he  wake  and  bid  you  stay  ; 
Hush  and  haste  away, 
Haste  away, 

Away ! 

ELFKIDA. 

And  we  too  must  be  going,  for  look  how  long 
the  shadows  of  the  reapers  lie  along  the  land. 
How  sad  so  sweet  a  day  must  end  ! 

JULIUS. 
And  are  not  others  coming  better  than  this  ? 


180  JJTTLE   COMEDIES. 

ELFRIDA. 

Who  can  say  ?  Ah,  yes  !  I  will  believe  that 
they  are  coming. 

JULIUS. 

That  is  wise,  Elfrida.  That  is  bravely  said. 
Look  how  the  sunlight  comes  like  a  conqueror, 
slanting  through  the  dark  firs !  It  touches  the 
poor  child's  cheek,  and  you  stoop  to  kiss  the  place. 
That  is  well  done.  Did  you  see  how  he  smiled 
and  moved  in  sleep  ?  He  will  wake  soon  wifch 
the  evening  light  about  him,  to  find  wealth  in  his 
little  brown  hand,  and  in  his  heart  the  dream  of 
a  young  queen's  kiss. 

ELFRIDA. 
Come.     It  is  time  to  go  home. 

JULIUS. 

And  after  our  many  journeys  by  land  and  sea, 
is  there  still  a  home  for  us  ?  Arise,  Aurelian ! 
come,  good  pup,  and  follow  our  gracious  lady 
home. 

THE   END. 


UNIVEESITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY, 
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